


uncomplicated

by stratumgermanitivum, YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Bottom Will Graham, Brief/Mild Ageplay, Bruises, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Established Relationship, Guilt, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Lies, Light Bondage, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Phone Sex Operator Will Graham, Possessive Behavior, Rape Roleplay, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Secret Identity, Sexual Fantasy, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26146303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: Male. Seeking Male. New Client. Wants something uncomplicated.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 65
Kudos: 738





	1. Chapter 1

_"Will it hurt? I'm scared, I don't want it to hurt. Are you going to hold me down? Pin me in place with your body between my thighs?"_

Some people inherited houses when their parents died, or heirlooms, or at the very least, a letter.

Will had inherited debts. Thousands of dollars, taken out in his own name, some when he was young and stupid enough to sign contracts for his father, some when he was younger than that and probably illegally bartered. 

He knew that if he said something to Hannibal, Hannibal would want to fix the problem. Finding solutions to Will's problem was Hannibal's favorite thing to do, besides create more of them. 

But it would have meant opening up that pandora's box which Hannibal always pried at so eagerly. Letting Hannibal slip under Will's guard and poke and prod at all his sore spots. _How **was** your relationship with your father, Will? What were you like, as a boy? Did you have an unhappy childhood?_

Will loved Hannibal. Truely, deeply. Madly. He also despised him in nearly equal measure, or at the very least, he despised how eagerly he would have made a nest for himself in the bowl of Will's skull. Flattering, yes, but Will was private and prickly by nature, and no amount of love or violence would change that. 

So Will looked for another job. Something easy, something he could do in his spare time. Something that wouldn't draw horror down his face in the form of dark circles and deep furrows, drawing Hannibal to his troubles like a hungry maggot to a corpse. 

The hotline wouldn't have been his first choice. But they had a desk for him, private and tucked away, and they didn't mind odd hours or changing schedules. So long as he worked, and they made money, they weren't particular about _when_.

And Will, with his innate sense of people and the things that made them tick, turned out to be _really_ good at it. 

"It's okay, baby," the voice on the other end of the line groans. Will catches a cuticle between his teeth and chews on it absently as he listens to the wet, slippery sound of over-lotioned fingers fumbling with an erection. A sound he's heard so often now it's more than lost its allure. "Just a little more, promise."

This is a regular of his; he recognizes the voice. He told Will his name was Mike, and Will appreciates men like Mike, because they are simple and straightforward. Nothing deep to delve into there, even if he wanted to.

Hannibal would want to. He'd want to crack open their skulls and peek around inside even as they were panting and moaning in his ear while he talked sweet to them. 

"You're hurting me," Will says, quiet and high. Mike likes that kind of thing. Better doing it here, racking up his phone bill, than out there in the real world, hurting real people, he supposes. He hears Mike make that weird little huff he does, right before he finishes. 

A shadow passes by the entrance to his cubicle, stops and waits patiently for him to finish. Will pushes the 'mute' button on his phone and gestures the shadow forward. It takes the shape of Beverly, someone who is both technically his hiring manager and his pimp, if he were to look at it a little too long. She grins at him and he makes a gesture that she can talk. Mike isn't someone who needs a lot of encouragement, not when he's close.

"Hey," she greets quietly. "So, Shannon caught a nasty stomach bug and her cover can't get here for another hour. Can you swing an extra?"

Will hums. The night has been relatively quiet, and it's not like he's in a rush to get home. Things with Hannibal have always been a peculiar kind of prickly, since Will is just as likely to snap at him as to leap into his arms and kiss the living daylight out of him, depending on his mood.

But it's been a little more tense than usual. To call Hannibal a horndog isn't fair, but at the mere _suggestion_ of intimacy he is pulled like a fly to honey, a meteor helplessly caught by gravity. Will can trigger his responses easy as anything, _charmingly_ easy.

Until Will got this job. It's hard to get in the mood when he's spent hours and hours listening to men and women jerk off in his ear and he's had to play sweet or submissive or domineering or whatever the fuck else they want. It's exhausting, being so many things for so many people. It's just fucking _exhausting_ , to the point where he just doesn't have the energy for anyone, even the man he loves.

Beverly's fingers snapping in front of his face draws his attention, and Will clears his throat, straightens in his chair. Holds up a hand because Mike is making noise too. "Fuck, please, gentler," he whines, and then mutes himself again. Beverly shoves her tongue into her cheek so she doesn't react.

"Yeah, I can stay," he tells her. "Tell Shannon she owes me a beer."

"You got it. Thanks, _baby,_ " she replies with a wink. Will rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to Mike as he finishes. Twelve minutes - that might be a new record.

Will makes more money the longer they stay on the line, but he prefers a dozen shorter calls to a handful of longer ones. Some clients, like Mike, are merely insufferable. Dull, or predictable. Not enough of a challenge to catch Will's interest, to draw more than a sliver of his attention. Others are taxing, demanding constant interaction, reassurance, response. 

Worst are the lonely. The ones who have no one else to speak to, no one at home to sate their hunger for human contact. Will knows Terry has a man who calls twice a week, just to _chat_. 

They don't try that with Will. He's careful not to give those kinds of people what they want. He always feels like he would leave them unsatisfied; he's not a Goddamn psychiatrist, after all, and has no desire to bring them the kind of comfort that can't be given with an orgasm.

"Thanks for calling," Will says, as another man dials in. "I've been so lonely tonight. What can I do to make you feel good, handsome? Let me take care of you."

It's not as though Hannibal expects to be the sole thing in Will's life. As much as he prefers to be the center of attention, he is used to sharing Will. With his classes, with the FBI, with the dogs he learned to accept in his home. He even enjoys the dogs, now that they have a mutual understanding about whether or not they are permitted on any of the sofas used for guests at Hannibal's dinner parties. 

At his core, however, Hannibal is a selfish man. He feels no guilt over this. Most people are selfish, he is merely honest with himself about it. He enjoys having as much of Will's life intertwined with his own as possible. Lately, he's lucky if he sees Will long enough to feed him dinner, let alone wrap himself entirely in Will. 

Tonight, Will is later than usual. He comes to Hannibal when he's already in bed, stripping down to his underwear and crawling in beside him with an exhausted sigh. "Sorry," he murmurs. "Jack needed me."

Hannibal accepts this with a hum, for a moment too content with the scent, the warmth of Will, for his higher functions to kick in. Will is so sweetly warm - whatever he was doing, it made him sweat. It clings tackily behind his ears, is settled like leftover ocean water into his hair. Will is so close to unconsciousness he's limp in Hannibal's arms, but gives a tiny, weak noise of complaint when Hannibal tugs him closer.

"I'm so tired," he whispers. He's been tired for weeks, now. All those late nights. Hannibal had been patient for the first week, had even curbed back his own extracurriculars in the hope that once Will was done with his killer du jour, he would be able to spend more time with Hannibal and be home. But that killer was caught, and apparently another sprouted in his place overnight. And another, and another….

Hannibal is beginning to suspect it's something else. He keeps up with the news voraciously - it's not like he doesn't have an excess of time now, to do it - and there's been no extreme cases that would warrant Will spending so much time with Jack. The only thing that soothes the suspicion in Hannibal's gut is that Will never smells like another man, or a woman - he's a little sweaty and smells like stale air consistent with an office building, with Quantico or the University, but never another person.

So there isn't someone else. Hannibal can forgive Will many transgressions, but that….

Will makes another soft noise when the moments have stretched on and Hannibal hasn't moved. He turns his head, and he does look tired, exhausted to the bone. Poor thing.

"Perhaps Jack and I should have a discussion," he says. Will's eyes flash, brows lowering. Hannibal sighs, lowers his gaze, pets down Will's flank and feels tension thrumming through him like a plucked guitar string. "You're working yourself to the bone, darling. Surely there are other investigators -."

"Hannibal." Will's voice is sharp and cutting as a glass shard. His eyes, black in the muted half-light of their bedroom, reveal nothing but what his mouth echoes; "Don't."

He's stepped into a place from which most people would back away. A fear of displeasing their partner, of upsetting the careful balance in their relationship.

Hannibal has never truly feared anything, and he has a long history of treading where others do not dare to go. He and Will have a mutual understanding; Will is venomous and prickly, Hannibal is stubborn and intrusive, and neither tries to change the other. 

"You work so much," Hannibal insists, tightening his grip on Will, latching on to keep him from pulling away, from trying to keep himself from being seen. "And you sleep so little. When was the last time you had an evening to relax with the dogs? When was the last time you and I sat down to a meal at the same time?"

" _Don't_ ," Will says again, voice thick with fury and laden down with hurt Hannibal knows he won't admit to feeling. Hannibal knows exactly which buttons to push to get a desired response, but he also knows when Will's walls have been built up too high. He's spent too many years tearing them down to ignore when they've been reinforced. 

Hannibal sighs. He tugs Will against him, back to Hannibal's chest, and tucks his nose into the space just behind his ear, a place that always makes Will shiver, tired or otherwise. 

"If there was something I could fix for you," he says slowly, "you would tell me." It's not a question, but it's not something Hannibal is entirely certain of, either. He tries to make it sound like a demand, but Will has never taken well to following orders.

Will is still in his arms for a long moment, silent. Then his hand catches Hannibal's, twining their fingers together. "I would," he says, and though he has no reason to lie, Hannibal doesn't believe him.

Hannibal never seems to feel any guilt, and so Will tries not to either, but it twists within him, regardless. They've worked too hard and built up too much trust together for dishonesty, but Will knows what will happen if he's honest.

Hannibal has money. Will does not. These things have always been true, and never particularly relevant in their lives. Once they moved in together, their assets combined. They shared accounts, shared bills. 

And yet, Will never quite forgets. He never stops counting in his head, keeping track of numbers that shouldn't matter. If he tells Hannibal, Hannibal will wipe away the debts without a second thought, and Will will feel bitter resentment towards himself. Childhood poverty has made him resistant to anything that could be perceived as 'charity.'

So Will keeps his new job, and he keeps lying to Hannibal. He comes home late, he winces when Hannibal tries to touch him. He attempts to muster up any sort of energy for intimacy, but even that carries the heavy weight of guilt. 

"Thanks for calling," Will says for the thousandth time. "How can I make you feel good tonight?"

A breath on the other end of the line, and then a thickly accented voice says, "I was hoping for some company."

For a moment Will thinks he might have finally snapped. Or maybe he's already come home and that familiar voice in his ear is the product of a fever dream. That at any moment, he might wake to solid warmth and a tentatively groping hand, seeking touch. He blinks down at his little dial pad. The numbers aren't given to them, to deter familiarity growing and to stop any wayward attempt at trying to call their clients back and tying up the phone lines, or risking the health and safety of the workers, so there's no familiar phone number running across the screen. What pops up, instead, on Will's tiny desktop monitor, are the notes from one of the intake reps that first greet the callers:

Male. Seeking Male. New Client. Wants something uncomplicated.

Must have come from Brian. He never puts in any details, but generally the vague are sent to Will to suss out, so that he can figure out what they want and redirect their intake form next time to someone who might be more suitable if they call again.

He glares at the little dialogue box. "Any specific kind of company?" he murmurs on auto-pilot, his knuckles turning white as he clenches his fists and rubs them against his thighs. He would know that voice anywhere - of course he would. It's distinctive and measured and has graced Will's ears for months. 

There's a low hum at the other end of the line and Will hears it, feels it like a punch to the gut. That noise is as well-known to him as his own hand. His hand which is currently biting nails into his palm. His jaw clenches and he fights back a snarl.

The fucking _nerve_.

"What is your name?" the voice asks. There's a smile in it, and Will can picture the man who owns it now, at rest on his fancy comfortable leather couch, one leg crossed over the other. He probably has wine, it's about that time of night. His iPad, set on the empty seat beside him. Searching for companionship. Something _uncomplicated_.

"Hunter," Will replies, trying not to sound like he's spitting acid. Everyone here has a name that isn't their name, it's just common sense. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, holds it a second, a second more. "And yours?"

"My name is Hannibal." And there it is. Simple and mellow. Just like he did when they first met. Like he's not calling a Goddamn _phone sex line_ while Will is working himself to the fucking bone trying to make ends meet. 

Will is a professional - or at least, he's paid well enough here to be a very good amateur. He needs to get a fucking grip. If his boyfriend is calling a phone sex line, that's something he needs to deal with later before he does something stupid like lose his job and his relationship in a single phone call.

For a second, he's glad Brian is lazy and sent Hannibal to him. But he'll be damned if he lets this stay _uncomplicated_.

"Hannibal," he says, in a slow, drawling murmur. "How nice of you to come and play with me. It's been such a boring night."

It is the same way he starts any call that doesn't have a pre-determined roleplay, and in retrospect, treating Hannibal like any other client is a mistake.

It doesn't fool him; of course not. He chuckles, that low, rumbling sound that Will loves to hear when they're alone together. A sound he is now _sharing_ with the man he's called for a bit of _satisfaction._

"Surely not," Hannibal says. "Not with your particular vocation. I imagine every night has a bit of excitement."

"Not all fantasies are created equal."

"Then I shall endeavor to stand out."

Will nearly growls. Not only is Hannibal seeking out comfort from someone else, he intends to _impress_ them. He wants to show off, lure another victim in under his commanding presence.

And if Will is any good at his job, he was going to think it had _worked_.

"I'm told you're not a complicated man," Will said. "Just looking for some company, some comfort?"

"Ahh, but I wouldn't want to bore you."

"You couldn't bore me," Will reassures. His honesty shines through, just a bit. Angry as he is, there is nothing about Hannibal that could ever be considered dull or disinteresting. Even if they talk their way through completely ordinary missionary sex, Hannibal will reach out to Will in a way that Will can never resist.

"Tell me how you like your nights to go," Hannibal suggests.

"I like a bit of a _challenge_ ," Will says. He lets desire drip like venom from his voice, slick and infectious. He knows what men like. He knows what _Hannibal_ likes. "I like to stretch my wings a little bit. Really sink my _teeth_ into something."

"I like a boy who bites." 

And _oh_ , he does indeed. When they're fucking, when Will has both the time and energy for Hannibal's needs, they leave bruises all across each other. Will has a scar in the shape of Hannibal's grin etched permanently into his left shoulder. 

"I can bite," Will promises. "Or you can bite me. I'm not picky about my position, as long as you let me play."

He hears Hannibal's breath catch, at that, and grins to himself, vindicated at the sound. Hannibal is always so calm and cool and collected - Will likes to watch people, he likes to observe, and Hannibal is no exception to that. Their courting process had been like a huge game of chicken; Hannibal, polite and preening and posturing while pretending he wasn't. Will, open to just about anything but willing to let Hannibal play his games.

They push at each other like tectonic plates, grinding and going nuclear. It's nice, even knowing how eager Hannibal has been, to hear how Will affects him without knowing. A tiny manipulation, a puppet who thinks he's a real boy.

"Do you want me to play, Hannibal?" he purrs, sitting forward and propping his chin up with one hand. He bites his lower lip, lets out a soft sigh that isn't entirely fake. He can imagine Hannibal now, easy as anything, sprawled out - though of course, Hannibal doesn't sprawl, he _reclines_ at leisure - along his fancy expensive couch. It's easier to summon the energy to be flirtatious and brazen when he doesn't have to actually do anything, and with the added incentive that, the longer he keeps Hannibal on the line, the fatter his paycheck. It's not like Hannibal can't stomach the expense.

Even if he's calling a Goddamn phone sex line.

Will huffs, and shoves the thought away. _Later_. "I like taking my time with a new guy," he adds, smiling as Hannibal gives a curious, breathless hum. "I like seeing what I'm working with. Are you hard? Will you show me?"

Hannibal lets out a sound, half an amused laugh, half a low, helpless growl. "You're rather eager, aren't you, Hunter?"

"I know what I like," Will replies. But he knows better than to push. With Hannibal, at least. All in due time. "But I want to take care of you, too." It's more genuine than he knows what to do with, and he hopes Hannibal doesn't pick up on that weird mix of betrayal and anger and wistfulness in his voice. If he wasn't so fucking tired all the time, he _would_ be at home. Letting Hannibal feed him and ply him with sweet wine until Will crawled into his lap, or went to his knees. 

Hannibal is _his_. Will is the only one who should be taking care of his needs, and if Hannibal is going to wander, Will's going to make damn sure he doesn't wander far. That he doesn't ask for someone else, when and if he calls back. 

Finally, after a long stretch of quiet where the only sound is Hannibal's breathing, he says; "And how would you do that?"

Will smiles. "Can I get on my knees?" he purrs, makes his voice high, breathy. "I bet you have such a nice cock, all big and thick. Something that'll make my jaw sore and my throat clench up when I try to take all of you."

He hears Hannibal suck in a breath. Hears, very quiet but unmistakable, the wet slip of a damp palm around hard flesh. It's a sound he could probably recall in his sleep these days, since he hears so much of it.

" _Mm_ , fuck, look at you," Will breathes. He knows what Hannibal's cock looks like, of course. Can imagine it in his hand, his tongue thick with the easily-recalled scent of his sweat, his cologne, his precum. He whines. "Let me taste you. Don't tease me."

"I think I'd like to tease you, actually."

He _would_ , this, Will knows with certainty. Hannibal savors Will like he savors a meal. He likes to let the taste of Will's desperation linger on his tongue. He often spends hours bringing Will to the highest of ecstasy.

When Will had the time and the energy to let him.

But Will is nothing if not good at his job. He detours, swerving neatly around to draw things out the way Hannibal likes. To keep Hannibal's attention entirely on him, for as long as he can.

"You're already teasing me." Will adjusts himself in his seat, clicks his tongue. He knows what sounds will come through the speaker tinny and unpleasant, and which will sound wet and sensual. A slow sigh, a roll of his shoulders. The mask he's wearing tonight is closer to Will Graham than it's ever been, but it's still a mask. "You've got me on my knees, already aching for you, and you won't even undo your belt?"

A warm, smooth chuckle. "Will you say please?"

Will flutters his eyelashes, though there is no one there to see. "I'll say 'pretty please'."

He knows from the sounds he makes that Hannibal is already bare, already primed for Will, but the fantasy needs to feel real. Some clients want a quick run-and-done, but that's not Hannibal. He wants to be walked slowly, hand in hand, down the aisle of a daydream.

"Alright," Hannibal says. "You can have what you want."

"I know I can," Will says, more honesty than act. "And I'm so excited for it. Look at you, that's going to hurt. You're going to stretch me open and my jaw will ache for days."

"Start small," Hannibal says. "Just the tip. I'm uncircumcised, if it matters."

"A little bit more to play with _always_ matters," Will purrs, although given that Hannibal is the only man he's ever slept with, he's not really sure it does. "Just a lick, to start. I just want to taste you. Right over the head, where the flavor is strongest. You're leaking already, aren't you?"

"Yes," Hannibal murmurs, his breath catching just a little on the word. Will smiles, leaning forward, elbows braced on his desk. He closes his eyes, unable to stop himself imagining it. There's a certain power in taking a man apart, no matter if he's on his knees, or in Hannibal's lap, or the less common times Hannibal lets Will inside him. A personal preference of theirs, but it affects Will powerfully whenever he gets the chance.

He hums into the microphone, lets his voice grow breathy and soft. "I don't know if I'll be able to take all of that," he teases, and wets his lips, knowing Hannibal will hear it. "Fuck, but you want to make me try, don't you? I want to try, for you."

"You can go at whatever pace you'd like," Hannibal replies. Always so accommodating, the perfect host. Will's upper lip twitches, but he doesn't make any negative sound in reaction. "I'm sure you're more than aware of your own limits."

Will can't help himself; he laughs, though it's soft and sweet, and he hears Hannibal give that little rumbling growl he does in answer. It sends a shiver down Will's spine, and he flexes his fingers, burying them in the crook of his opposite elbows. "I'm gonna try," he whispers roughly. "You can grab my hair, if you want, make me take all of you."

It's a delicate balance in this line of work, between believable sensation and Will still being able to talk. If he was doing this properly, of course he wouldn't be able to keep coaching and teasing Hannibal through it. But he knows Hannibal has an incredible, powerful imagination. He doesn't have to figure out how to play with his partner, this time.

He can hear the wet slip of Hannibal's fingers over his erection, slow, unhurried. Will likes it, likes hearing Hannibal's breath catch again. He's getting hard, too, his own cock knowing the sound of his mate in his ear. Even without Hannibal in front of him, Will has a good imagination too, and it's so easy to conjure the familiar face; Hannibal's lashes, low over his dark eyes. The pretty, dark pink flush that starts in his cheeks when Will touches him. How he bares the edges of his teeth, just a fraction, just a tease.

He lets out a sound, choking, rough, and gasps as though Hannibal has just let him pull off, panting and wincing at the bruising pressure of a thick cock buried in his throat. "Fuck, it's so much," he whines. Hannibal is far from a brute in bed; for the most part, their interactions go a lot like this. Hannibal isn't forceful unless Will asks for it, but Will isn't blind, and he isn't deaf. He hears how Hannibal growls, lowly, at the idea of hurting him. "I won't be able to talk right after this."

"Pity," Hannibal hums, sounding undeniably pleased.

"Please, let me try again," Will begs, hearing the rhythm of Hannibal's hand speed up just a fraction. "I'll be so good. I want to taste you. Want you to fuck my throat until you spill down it. I'll swallow every drop, I promise."

"You are certainly eager," Hannibal purrs. "Who am I to deny you?"

Will smiles. Predictable. Controlling, giving himself over to Will like it's a favor on his part. Will hums into the microphone, gasps as he listens to Hannibal's breathing grow heavy. "Harder," he whispers, and Hannibal _snarls_ at him. "Come on, baby. Use me. That's it."

The rhythm is getting faster, now, Hannibal growing non-verbal, more animal. This is familiar, and even though WIll is still royally pissed at the entire situation, he can't deny how it affects him. He might have to take a break after to calm himself down, run to the bathrooms and take care of his own heavy, thrumming arousal. 

"I love how you taste," Will breathes, and that is honest. It's always been that way for him. "I can feel how tender I'm going to be when you're done. That's it, choke me. Make me take it."

Hannibal goes silent, on the other end of the line, the loud, slick noise of his hand stilling. He grunts when he comes, and Will smiles widely, opening his eyes and staring at the little window of Hannibal's case Brian sent him. His fingers flex again. He already knows, when the call ends, that he'll insist Hannibal be directed to him again, when and if he calls a second time.

He bites his lower lip at the reminder, and pushes the thought away. He still has a job to do.

He sighs when he hears Hannibal do it, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, pleased in a complicated way at hearing his lover satisfied. "You taste so good," he purrs. "Thank you."

Hannibal laughs. "I think I should be thanking you."

Will hums. "Just promise me you'll ask for me when you call back?" he murmurs, and can't help sounding just a little bit wistful. He tells himself it's because part of his job is sales - after all, repeat customers that he knows how to handle are easier money than new ones. And he can't stomach the idea of someone else taking care of Hannibal while Will is working himself to death trying to make ends meet.

"I promise, Hunter," Hannibal replies gently. Will winces at the fake name.

He forces his voice light; "Can I do anything else for you, tonight?" he rasps, cementing the illusion that he just got his throat fucked and swallowed Hannibal's come. 

"No, thank you. You performed admirably," Hannibal replies. He sounds happy, satisfied, a predator with teeth gnawed down by living flesh and bone. "Have a good rest of your night."

"You too," Will says, and then the call ends, and the window on his computer changes so that he can add his notes. Typically he leaves notes for other people; what the client liked, what didn't work for them, so that any future responder will be able to pick up where he left off.

He doesn't do that. He types, swiftly and with more force on the poor keys than strictly necessary: "Specifically requested 'Hunter' in future calls. Do not send him to any other agent." It takes all his willpower not to write it in all caps or with any exclamation points. Those who direct the calls know better than to go against what the clients or agents request. 

He updates Hannibal's file and pulls his headset off, transferring his status to 'On Break'. He pushes himself to his feet, and heads towards the bathrooms.

The bathrooms here are sterile, perhaps because Will wouldn't be the only one to take advantage of them during his break. No one wants to jerk off in a disgusting public restroom.

But they _are_ still public restrooms, and the potential lack of privacy has Will's shoulders around his ears as he tucks himself into a stall, leaning against the door. As if the lock itself is not enough to hold the door shut, to seal himself away from a job that has just become ten times harder.

Will fumbles with his buckle, working a hand into his slacks to wrap tight around the base of his cock. He could practically taste Hannibal, bitter on his tongue. Fucking _Hannibal_ , with his deep, smooth voice and his _cock_ , thick between Will's lips and fucking roughly into the tight channel of his throat. 

Will's orgasm, when it comes, is unsatisfying. Nothing more than a quick spill of fluid into cheap toilet paper, a few electrical impulses from his nervous system to his brain. Will is left staring blindly at walls the nauseating color of split-pea soup, disgust seeping in at the corners. 

Hannibal is an asshole. Will has no idea how he's going to face him when he gets home, knowing that Hannibal would stoop so low. Technically, calling a phone sex hotline isn't an affair. Will isn't even entirely sure it's cheating. But the knowledge burns him from the inside out. Will is a possessive man, and Hannibal has, up until now, entirely indulged him in that. They entwine themselves thoroughly together. Will has no need for other people, and Hannibal's other friendships have always been entirely superficial. 

They had been enough for each other, before. 

Will's surge of resentment towards Hannibal is matched only by his fury at himself. This is the first orgasm Will has had in _weeks_ , and he had it alone, in the bathroom of a job he can't admit he has. Not at home, in bed with a man who views him as an object of worship. 

Will has two more hours to go. He feels exhaustion in every fiber of his being, bone deep and heavy as a stone around his neck. 

He washes his hands raw in the sink and goes back to his desk.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal had made the call on a whim.

He is, despite Will's occasional insistence otherwise, only human. Loneliness can bite at him as easily as it bites at anyone else, little nibbles that wear away at his sturdy exterior. Still, the call had not been a means to rectify that. It had been an impulse, a curiosity. By the time Hannibal had made it through the introductory stage, he'd nearly made up his mind to hang up and spend the evening with a good book. 

And then Will's voice had come through, clear and crisp and warm. Hannibal had been as effortlessly lost to him then as he was the first time they'd spoken.

Concern came later, after the call had ended. 

Hannibal's Will is a brilliant, complex creature. He loses himself to his work, he carries darkness home in his satchel. He becomes the demons he slays, and that empathy has always appealed to Hannibal.

But, for all the shadows that Will carries around his shoulders, he has always been an impeccably honest man. They have no secrets from each other.

Or so Hannibal had thought. 

In any normal, mundane relationship - and, objectively, he registers this in the back of his mind - Hannibal supposes he should be more upset than he is. He should, perhaps, feel betrayed, or annoyed that Will is spending hours and hours servicing strangers over the phone and can't muster up the energy to do more than fall asleep in Hannibal's arms every night. There exists in his mind some inkling, some vague notion of betrayal, like a faraway cloud atop a distant mountain. 

Will comes home to him every night. No matter where his beloved wildcat wanders, this is his home, and Hannibal has not smelled, seen, tasted any other person on Will's skin. If this is something he's doing out of a selfish desire for attention, he is not acting on it. That soothes Hannibal's hackles, gentles his teeth.

There must be a reason. A reason Will would choose to go into a line of work so drastically different than any other in his life. Hannibal has no judgement for sex workers - they are some of the most hardworking and likeable people, in his opinion. They must certainly deal with a higher concentration of undesirable clients. Not unlike therapy, he thinks with a small laugh, nursing his glass of wine, his eyes on the fire.

His phone sits next to him, on the empty couch cushion. The website for the call center he'd chosen is still open on his iPad. Absently, he closes the browser, erases the history, and reaches over and pushes the button to lock the screen. 

The attempt at secrecy is, perhaps, redundant. He realizes this a moment too late. Hannibal had taken no measures to disguise his voice, or to use a fake name. It was Will on the other end of the line - Hannibal would recognize his voice, the way he rasped and drawled just a little Southern charm when he was being shy, the way his breath caught, anywhere. His imagination had supplied him an image of Will, hunched over a little desk in an overcrowded call center. Outraged, maybe. Tense and trembling.

Hannibal's lips purse.

There must be a reason. The late nights and long hours have been relatively recent, all things considered. Which means Will's position at the center is relatively new, or he has worked there for a while but recently needed to take on more hours. If it is because he's unhappy with any aspect of their relationship or intimacy, Hannibal reasons he would have detected more evidence of an affair, so Will isn't wandering because he's not having his emotional or physical needs met.

A lack of funds, perhaps.

Hannibal hums, lifting his chin. Of course. Will's father had recently passed away. Hannibal had been unable to go with him to settle the estate, and Will had insisted he didn't need the company. He and his father, though a relationship forged strong and affectionate, was not one terribly affected by death. Will shakes hands with death too often these days to allow it to see him stumble. 

But Will's family is not one known for its wealth. Perhaps there were debts that could not be settled, and had been passed along to Will like a dilapidated armchair.

Hannibal knows why Will would not have come to him about such a thing, though he allows the thought to stretch its legs and wander its way through its natural life cycle. Will is proud, Will isn't one to accept hand-outs, Will is….

Will is complicated.

Will comes home long after Hannibal has cleaned up the dinner dishes and set the kitchen back to rights. He can hear the dogs bustling around the door - they're impeccably behaved, but they can never resist that first moment of excitement when Will comes home. 

Usually, Will lingers in the entryway, greeting each dog individually and relishing in the moment, as the stress of the day falls from him moment by moment. 

Today, Will's greeting is no less affectionate, but far more perfunctory. Within moments, he stands in the kitchen doorway, observing. Hannibal can see anger, in his eyes, in the white clench of his fists. 

Will's fury dies as quickly as it burns. He does not, after all, know for sure that Hannibal recognized him - though Hannibal would know him anywhere, in any lifetime. And though his reasonings are mere speculation for Hannibal, at this point, he clearly is not yet ready to give up his privacy. He deflates, there in the doorway, his eyes glancing away. 

Hannibal craves, as he always does, to have those eyes back on him. He takes a step towards Will, and that's when he catches the scent.

Will's pleasure has its own corner of Hannibal's mind palace. He has hours upon hours of memories dedicated to the arch of Will's back and the rush of his pulse beneath Hannibal's lips as he shakes apart. Hannibal knows that scent, the exact note that means Will had been just affected by their phone call as Hannibal was.

Hannibal feels a pang of longing. It has been too long since they've partaken in each other, and to know Will has taken matters into his own hands is both an intoxicating thought and a painful one. That he couldn't resist Hannibal, even tired, even from afar - and he has not smelled like this on any other night so it _must_ have been Hannibal - is a balm to Hannibal's aching loneliness, but he cannot deny his regret at having been left out of the moment. He wants to touch, and to taste.

"Long day," Will finally says, clearing his throat awkwardly to break the silence. 

Hannibal smiles. Will's voice is rough, hoarser than usual. He likes to think it's because Will has been affected, more this night than any other. That Hannibal was the one to affect him so.

He turns, and pours Will a glass of water, stepping close to him as he hands it off. Will's fingers tremble, just slightly, as he takes the drink and brings it to his lips. His lower one is a little redder than usual, swollen from the sharpness of his teeth.

Hannibal takes his other hand. His right one, the one that smells so thick and heady with salt. Will doesn't protest, but his cheeks darken and he watches Hannibal like a wary beast, as Hannibal brings their entwined fingers up, presses his nose to Will's wrist, and breathes in deeply.

He hums, and Will swallows harshly.

"An interesting day, no doubt," Hannibal observes, with a smile that is like a cat seeing a mouse caught in a trap. Will's blush is dark, red as rare meat. He swallows again and his fingers curl, shoulders tensing in the instinctive urge to flee. Hannibal contemplates letting him. Considers tightening his own nails and dragging his lover close.

"I -." Will stops. Starts. Stops again. Takes a longer drink.

"There must have been something very striking about whatever case Jack has you working on," Hannibal continues, poking at a wound he knows is raw and open. Will, when he has his barriers up and is drenched in shame, is not unlike how he behaves on nights where the windows are black and the lights are low. Each cry, each shiver wrenched from him, is like pulling sutures from a wound. Hannibal resists the urge to bare his teeth and bite down harder.

Of course, they both know why Will smells like pleasure. Why he's blushing so deeply. But Will doesn't know Hannibal knows. He can't - Hannibal gave no indication.

Sweet, complicated boy. 

"Would you like to talk about it?" Hannibal asks. They share details of cases, Hannibal acting as a sounding board while Will trips and navigates his way through the pulsing darkness of a killer's mind. He has spent so many nights carefully helping Will to unpack the sins he brings home with him, heavy in his bag, weighing down his shoulders like a cloak.

Will's hands tremble, and he sets the water glass down. His upper lip twitches, eyes flashing with outrage, and Hannibal wants to smile. He schools his expression - if Will wants to play coy, then Hannibal, of course, will let him.

"There's a serial rapist on the loose," Will snaps, like a challenge. Hannibal blinks at him, and tilts his head. "He stalks couples, beats the man, assaults the woman while the man watches and then kills them both."

Clearly, Will intends to shock him, to derail him. Hannibal merely hums and presses a warm, open-mouthed kiss to Will's rushing pulse. He relishes how it jumps beneath his lips. 

Will's eyes meet his, blackened. He lifts his chin. It's a challenge, Hannibal knows it is - but how, darling Will, should he react to it? 

Hannibal steps close to him, invading his space, his free hand resting on the slight jut of Will's belt, thumb brushing the angle of his hip bone. Will shivers, unconsciously, his fingers curling against Hannibal's cheek.

"This killer has invaded your mind very deeply, then," Hannibal says. 

"It wasn't exactly enjoyable," Will replies. That, Hannibal can tell, is honest. Whatever drove Will to touch himself during his second vocation, he didn't enjoy it as much as if Hannibal had been there with him. That thought causes another gentle wave of pleasure to roll down Hannibal's spine, softening the instinct to go for Will's throat.

"Can I do anything, darling, to help you come back to me?" he asks. It's carefully phrased, a lure thrown out to the choppy, churning waters of Will's mind. Will swallows again, exhales unsteady and slow. 

"No," he rasps. He turns to Hannibal, a strangely desperate look in his eyes. Something plaintive and wretched with grief Hannibal knows the exact origin of, but is in no mood to soothe. If Will doesn't trust and love him enough to come to him with his financial concerns, if he would rather push Hannibal away and use his gifts to service strangers in secret, Hannibal will not let that happen without some degree of reciprocal punishment. 

Will clears his throat, and steps back, reaching for the water again and putting the island between them like a shield. "And how was your night?" he asks, iron returning to his spine like it was poured into a mold. Stiff and painful, burning him from the inside out. His voice is sharp, in a familiar way, as though daring Hannibal to confess to something.

Hannibal smiles. "Uneventful," he replies. "Lacking suitable diversion."

Will's eyes flash again, insulted. Good. "Well," he says curtly, finishing his water and setting the glass down by the sink. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"I think I'll stay up a while," Hannibal tells him, watching with delight as Will stiffens, another suspicious and angry look touching the angle of his mouth before he can restrain it. Still, he allows Hannibal to come to him, to touch his hips and place a chaste kiss on his red cheek. "I'll join you later."

"Fine," Will says, hissing the word. He turns in Hannibal's arms and meets his eyes for a long, long moment.

Hannibal sighs, brushing his thumb over the dark circles beneath Will's eyes. "You should really consider taking a day off," he says. Will blinks, slow, brow furrowing. "I'm sure Jack can spare you for just one day, darling."

"There are monsters to catch," Will replies. But the retort is soft, lacking ferocity. His lashes lower in a slow blink and he bites his lower lip. "Maybe," he adds, breathing out. "I -. Maybe."

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him. Chastely, again, delighted when Will tries to chase him. Possessive thing, so conflicted. His desperation is like honey on Hannibal's tongue. How far might he go, Hannibal wonders, to stake his claim once again, to dig in with claws and teeth and snarls. 

"Rest, Will," Hannibal coaxes, stepping away and busying himself with cleaning Will's glass. "Don't feel the need to wait for me."

He can tell Will doesn't want to go. He's suspicious, hissing, daring Hannibal to 'divert' himself some way when Will can't do it himself. But he leaves, tense and stinking of anger, and Hannibal smiles to himself as he hears Will stalk up the stairs and into their shared bedroom.

Will can't help it if his steps are a little bit heavier as he moves about their bedroom. Fury has weighed him down, made every motion feel rough and violent. There is no outlet for this jealous ire. Taking it out on Hannibal would mean confessing what Will knows, and that would spawn _conversations_. Conversations where Hannibal would weedle his way under Will's skin, wanting to know _why_ , and why Will didn't _tell_ him and why they were keeping _secrets_.

Hannibal would be right, of course, but that wouldn't make any of it less irritating. And Hannibal doesn't need that boost to his ego.

No, Will is going to finish off these debts on his own, with just a few more months of work, but he knows they'll be long, grueling months. 

And until then, he will have _this_ , this creeping tension, this moment of shame and jealousy. 

Will showers, to wipe away both the day and the scent it produced that Hannibal had been so fond of. He uses Hannibal's shampoo, both out of longing and spite - Hannibal pays far too much for the stuff and it gives Will a small amount of vindictive pleasure to waste a bit of it.

After, he crawls into bed with his hair still damp, curled up on his side, glaring at the wall. _Rest_ , Hannibal had said, and Will's exhaustion is bone deep, but he's never felt less restful. 

He's still awake when he hears soft footsteps in the hall. Hannibal must be feeling generous, giving Will the chance to brace for him - he's only heard when he wants to be heard.

Hannibal moves through the darkness, quiet, respectul. Will hears the shower run for a few minutes, then the hair dryer, and finally the mattress shifts as Hannibal settles his weight into it. 

Will rolls to his other side, seeking Hannibal's face in the darkness. 

"You were meant to be resting," Hannibal says.

"Not tired," Will lies. The jealousy is still thick in his belly. He can't shut down that memory, that first moment when he knew it was Hannibal on the line. It seems ridiculous to be jealous of _himself_ , but here Will is.

He finds Hannibal's arm. His side, his hip. Hannibal catches his hand and twines their fingers together.

"Not tonight," he says. As if he hasn't been reaching for Will for weeks, as if he's finally been _sated_. Will feels his lips pull back in a snarl. 

"It's fine," he tries. Will wriggles forward, until he feels the rise and fall of Hannibal's chest against his own. "It's fine. I'm awake." 

"Will -." Will kisses him to shut him up. It's hard and off-center, a clack of teeth while they figure out each other's angles. At least, in this respect, Hannibal melts to him as eagerly as he always has, a soft intake of breath followed by an almost unconscious arch of his body, seeking Will.

But his grip tightens, and he stops Will, large hands covering Will's own when Will reaches for his shirt. "Will," Hannibal growls, this low and rumbling thing that reminds Will far too much of how he'd sounded on the phone. His stomach twists, violently, in revulsion.

" _What_?" he snaps.

Hannibal sighs, and pets through his hair. It's such a tender and loving touch and Will hates it with all his might. He hates it, because the only other option is to break down and confess and he'll be _damned_ if he admits to anything now. He won't give Hannibal the satisfaction of tearing his walls down. 

Hannibal cups his face. Will's eyes have adjusted to the darkness, letting him see the subtle gleam of Hannibal's eyes, taking in light from the outside, the outline of his face and shoulders beneath the blankets. 

"I don't want to make love to whatever killer you've brought home with you."

Will recoils like he's been burned, the words stinging like a slap to the face. "It's not -. It's not _like_ that," he gasps, shaking his head. Hannibal lets out another quiet sound, too soft, too understanding. Will can't confess, he can't tell Hannibal why he smelled like arousal and come when he came home, without giving away the whole gambit. 

Even if he did, he wouldn't let Hannibal convince him to stop. Which means Will would still be out all night, working. Hannibal would still be lonely and unsatisfied. He might call _somewhere else_ , and that, fuck, that would be the worst part of all of it. He can't lose any part of Hannibal now, even the part apparently inclined to this half-affair.

Hannibal knows just the right words to choose to spear Will through the fucking heart. He's shaking, torn between lunging for Hannibal and taking what he wants, and turning as far away as he can and going to sleep with the anger at a simmer in his stomach. 

"He's not in my head anymore," he says instead. The words come out weak, he feels so _weak_. He reaches for Hannibal again, and Hannibal stops him, _again_ , and Will doesn't know what to do. "Hannibal -."

"I love you very much, Will," Hannibal tells him, "but I won't let you pull me into that mindset with you."

The words make something in Will's head flash, lighting up like a firework. "What mindset?" he whispers.

"A monster," Hannibal says. He kisses Will's fingers and cups his cheek, his touch so gentle. He's never rough with Will, not unless Will asks. There's something in his voice, some half-implication Will is too exhausted to process. Some odd kind of fervor, like a hungry animal given a glimpse of meat but too aware of the trap around it. 

'Pull', he'd said. Not 'force', not 'create'. Not some foreign nature unwelcome in their home.

Will sighs, surrendering. "Okay," he says, and feels Hannibal's body relax as well. "Just hold me?"

"Of course, darling," Hannibal says. Will hears him smiling. He rolls over onto his other side and Hannibal wraps himself around Will's back, as eager as ever, his nose in Will's hair. He makes a soft, amused sound, probably smelling his own shampoo, but he says nothing.

"Sleep, Will," he breathes against Will's neck, making him shiver.

Will nods and closes his eyes. He's restless, he's not sure he'll be able to sleep. His mind moves sluggishly, a racehorse worn to the ground but still spurred to action. Mindsets and monsters prowl the borders of conscious thought, and a theory forms.

Maybe Will can't get Hannibal to confess to what he's done. Maybe Hannibal will keep calling Hunter, using him for an outlet he won't allow Will. But he doesn't know Hunter. He doesn't think he has to keep his guard up or pretend. Maybe, with the right kind of prodding, he'll be tempted to indulge in things with Hunter he wouldn't let himself do with Will.

Will smiles. It's like another of their mind games, poking and prodding at the other, finding those limits and testing them. Despite the chaotic mix of anger and jealousy and bitter rejection swirling in his chest, he finds himself anticipating his next shift, where he can get another glimpse of what makes Hannibal tick.

Hannibal doesn't call during Will's next shift, nor the one after that. By the third, Will has grown tense, his shoulders up around his ears as he tap-tap-taps a rhythm against his desk. He checks the notes on Hannibal's file again and again, to make sure he really did say that Hannibal should be rerouted to Hunter. To make sure that Hannibal hasn't been foisted off onto someone else, someone who will play a part and do their job and not even remotely satisfy Hannibal. No one else would know how to slide under his skin like Will does. Anyone else would _bore_ him.

Will hopes they would bore him.

He's testy at home, snippy when Hannibal touches him, when he trails gentle fingers over Will's cheek and asks if he's feeling unwell. Will is so completely devoid of energy when he finally makes his way into their home, and Hannibal stubbornly refuses to call when Will is keyed up and ready for him. 

It makes Will bitter. He longs for Hannibal just as much as Hannibal presumably longs for him, but he can't be the one to reach out. He has to sit and wait for Hannibal to get _bored_.

Nearly a week later, he finally does. Will's phone rings and that thick, encompassing voice filters through. 

"I don't know if you remember me," Hannibal begins.

"You're unforgettable, Hannibal."

There is a pause before Hannibal speaks again, a pleased hum.

"Your services last week were greatly appreciated," he says, his tone cool and professional. It's the tone he uses to get under Will's skin, and it works just as well now, though Will can't see the smirk he surely wears. 

He says it as though Will was _adequate_ , as though Will merely met his needs rather than surpassing them, when Will knows what he can do to Hannibal when he tries.

"I aim to please," Will says, clenching his fist rather than his teeth. It's his job to remain calm and polite, and he's excellent at his job, but when it comes to Hannibal he still has pride to wound. He speaks, before he can stop himself. "I thought this week we'd try something new."

A thoughtful hum. The soft slide of fabric against skin. Will can imagine Hannibal lying amongst their silk sheets - It's Friday, which means Hannibal will have just replaced them, they'll be fresh and crisp when he wraps himself in them. "Something new?"

Will swallows, loudly, affecting a dry-mouthed nervousness. "I thought you could tie me up."

"Do you enjoy having control taken from you?"

Of course, Hannibal can never see an exposed nerve without pouncing on it. Will has him, now, intrigued by this soft-voiced stranger offering himself up on a silver platter. Will licks his lips.

"I like being helpless," he says. It's not _entirely_ a lie. Helplessness is a feeling he despises, but vulnerability at Hannibal's hands is a welcome distraction. He's had Hannibal bind him far more literally in the past. "You'd be able to do anything you wanted to me."

"I'd argue I could do anything I wanted now," Hannibal counters. He's in a good mood, Will thinks bitterly, and resists the urge to show his teeth. It isn't nearly as satisfying without anyone to see it.

"Mm," Will replies, lowering his lashes. "That's true. But what if…?"

He lets the thought trail off, and smiles when Hannibal _audibly_ straightens in answer. Got you now, you son of a bitch.

"What if?" Hannibal prompts.

"What if I wanted to play hard to get?" Will teases. "Fight you off? I bet you're so big and strong. I bet your hand fits...so perfectly, around my neck."

Hannibal's breath catches. "Would you like that?" he whispers. Will hears the slide of the sheets, the almost imperceptible creak of the mattress and rustle of pillows. That caught Hannibal's attention, clearly.

"Mm, I think I would," Will replies. "You could tie me up and choke me. I wouldn't be able to do a damn thing."

It's almost too genuine, how eager his voice gets at the thought. The image of Hannibal, looming over him, his prone body flexing against ropes and restraints, unable to fight back, to get away. Hannibal is relentless in his pursuit of mental stimulation; if he has a subject of conversation he wants to iron out, it takes sharp words and a sharper look to make him hesitate. 

They've played before. Hannibal over him, smirking at Will's helplessness, at how vulnerable he'd become, willingly. 

Tests of the water, dipping a toe into things that make Will's breath catch and his pulse stutter. And now, this, an expanse of options before them. No need to keep scissors within reach. No need to back down when things become too intimidating. Will reaches up and wraps his hand around his own throat, palm resting gingerly over his Adam's apple. 

When Hannibal speaks, it is with a deep rumble to his voice that Will recognizes. He's sunk further, this time, given over more of himself to Will's words. He's _eager_. "How hard would you fight me?" he muses. "Would you bear bruises in the shape of my hands?"

"Undoubtedly," Will says, his hand skimming down his chest to rest upon his knee. It's safe, there. No risk of accidentally pinging an erogenous zone. "I hardly know you, Hannibal. You frighten me, when you grab hold of me. I don't know if it's my life I'm fighting for."

"Not your life," Hannibal says, "just your freedom. A temporary restraint."

"But a thorough one, I hope."

"Of course. You'd be fretful. I'll have to tie your legs to the bedposts to keep you still."

Will closes his eyes. He can see it, limbs bound spread eagle to the corners of their bed. He'd be the center of attention. The center of _Hannibal's_ world.

Will. Not some charicature on the other end of a phone sex hot line.

Will grinds his teeth together and tamps down another wave of jealousy. He has Hannibal right now, even if Hannibal doesn't realize it. He's snagged every bit of his attention, and though Will may be the one in bondage in this scenario, it will be a long time before he sets Hannibal free. 

"Have I stripped already?" Will asks. "Did you lure me into your bedroom with promises of sweetness and affection?"

"No," Hannibal murmurs, dark and deep. "I intend to cut the clothes from your body."

Will can imagine it so clearly. Hannibal hates his flannels, he knows, though he's never said a negative word towards Will. He'd take his time, enjoying every inch of the cut, baring Will to the room little by little until Will lay in tattered remnants of the fabrics Hannibal so detests.

"I'd struggle," Will whispers. A thought seizes him, an urge so clear and visceral that it nearly _hurts_ to hold it back. So he doesn't. "You'd nick me, leave little scrapes of red along my skin."

He hears a breath down the line. Not too sharp, or too loud, but enough for Will to make out the heavy weight of Hannibal's desire.

"I'm going to lick the blood from your chest," Hannibal growls. "You'll taste nothing but iron when I kiss you."

Will can't help the noise he makes, and it's far too genuine and far too needy. Try as he might, his teeth don't catch it in time. It's almost worth it, to hear Hannibal's rumble in answer. Will feels his thighs tighten helplessly, seeking friction.

"But," Hannibal purrs, and _God_ , it is a purr, and sends shards of lightning down Will's spine. "I won't kiss you yet, dear boy." _Boy_. Will tucks that away for later. Hannibal has always been liberal with his pet names and terms of endearment, 'My darling' and 'Dear' and, once, when he was more drunk than tipsy, 'Beloved'. But _boy_ is new. He smiles and feels heat thrum in his stomach like a bird on fire at the notion of following that path at a later date.

Now, however; " _Please_ , Hannibal," Will whispers. "I need you to kiss me. I want to taste - taste myself on you. You hold my life in your hands."

Hannibal's answering rumble is _loud_.

"Hush, Hunter," Hannibal says. Will almost flinches at the sound of his fake name. He resists the urge, barely. He knows he's flushed, sweat curling the hair at the nape of his neck, gathering under his collar, under his arms, under his thighs where he's oh-so-subtly shifting his weight against the chair to get his jeans to tighten and put pressure on his cock.

He can't touch himself, after all; he's tied up in this fantasy.

"How can I earn it?" Will breathes, because he knows that's what Hannibal wants to hear. Hannibal's regard, his affection, his love, are all things hard-won. Will fought for his right to be at Hannibal's side, though it never felt like a fight, but he knows there were rivals. Hannibal's coworkers, his friends, his academic peers. The shadows of liaisons and lovers from his youth. His patients. _Hunter_. "I'll do whatever you want."

"Yes," Hannibal says. Will knows he was clothed when he called, and only now hears the drag of fabric, the teeth of his zipper being forced to unlock, the soft sigh he gives when he loosens his clothes and grips himself beneath them. 

"Do you want me to beg?" Will asks. He's practically already doing it. He's been on edge for almost a fucking week, since that disastrous last night Hannibal called, and he doesn't think there's a damn thing Hannibal would ask for that he wouldn't do. His curiosity has mated with his frustration and borne something terrible and twisted, something desperate, feral. Something that wonders if, tonight, when he gets home, he might give Hannibal a rope and watch his eyes go dark.

He shouldn't get ahead of himself. If Hannibal drives him to seek relief in the bathroom again, it'll be another shitshow when he gets home since clearly washing his hands to pinkness didn't do shit to get rid of the smell. And he still has hours of this shift to go.

Maybe he'll call out early. He can't remember the last time he needed someone to touch him this badly.

"Are you going to climb on my bloody chest and use my mouth?" Will adds, when Hannibal remains quiet; contemplative, breathing hard. He can't help himself; he drags his nails up his thigh and dares to press the heel of his hand against his trapped erection. "It'll hurt. You might suffocate me -."

Hannibal makes a sound that is _almost_ Will's name. His real name. Will goes quiet, the pulse of arousal so strong it leaves him breathless. Hannibal is thinking about him, even with the voice of a stranger in his ear. He closes his eyes and presses down on his cock harder.

"I need you to fuck me," he whines. "Please, _please_ , Hannibal. Make me scream."

"So eager," Hannibal whispers, voice guttural and low. Bestial; snarling. "Stay still, sweet boy. I have no patience for gentleness with you, tonight."

"Don't be gentle," Will begs. He can see it so clearly, as though this is real. Hannibal, kneeling between his legs, nothing to help him but spit and precum. Will knows how to take it; he can, he has before. But Hannibal is big and Will's body is tense as a bowstring. "Don't, don't, _fuck_ -."

He can't take it anymore. It's not entirely unheard of for someone to use their own office while on the phone. Will would rather go to the bathroom but he'll die if he ends the call with Hannibal now. Whether he's being loud enough people know to give him space, or luck is on his side, no one bothers him as he unbuttons and unzips his jeans and palms himself beneath them like a horny teenager.

Hannibal lets out a quiet huff of amusement. "You're a very talented actor."

"It's not an act," Will growls, tipping his head back.

"That's flattering."

"You bring it out in me," Will says. And that is far too genuine, too. He tightens his grip around his cock, and hunches forward so that he isn't so on display, turning his chair so his back is to the entrance of his section. "I want you to fuck me raw, until I bleed, and then come all over my chest. Make me yours, Hannibal."

"... _Oh_." Will gasps, lashes fluttering as he listens to the wet sounds of Hannibal stroking himself. He's close. Will is too. _Fuck_ , he's pretty much there. He's not going to last much longer, can feel his orgasm building low in his stomach, desperate to burst.

"Put a hand around your neck," Hannibal commands, words a snarl. Will obeys instantly and chokes into his microphone. "Good boy. Scream all you like, no one's coming for you. You're all mine."

Oh, _fuck_. Will grits his teeth and bites hard on the inside of his cheek, trying to hold on. If he comes before Hannibal does, if he comes at all on the phone, he'll do something stupid like confess, or just be totally useless for the end of the call. Not to mention the mess.

He squeezes his own throat so tightly his vision goes dark at the edges. "Hannibal, _fuck_ …."

"I feel as though you're here with me," Hannibal muses, and Will wants to laugh at how wrecked he sounds. "I'd like you to finish, Hunter. Can you do that?"

Will moans. "That's not -. Very professional," he manages.

"No," Hannibal agrees, "but that's what I want. Are you going to give me what I want?"

 _I'll give you everything,_ Will thinks. Though he doesn't say it, he likes to imagine Hannibal hears it all the same.

"I'm going to hold you down," Hannibal tells him. His voice is a caress, dangerous and dark. Will thumbs at the damp head of his cock, gasping for breath as he strangles himself. 

The tables have turned, and now Hannibal controls the story. It's all Will can do to hold on, to follow along with the filth Hannibal whispers in his ear.

"One hand around your throat, the other pressing your knee out to the side, spreading you, exposing you. I can feel you squirming. Your heartbeat fluttering like a little bird. Are you afraid of me?"

 _No_ , Will thinks. _No, I've never wanted anything more._ "You're hurting me," he whispers instead, hearing the soft catch of Hannibal's voice, a rumble of pleasure after. 

"I am," Hannibal agrees. "I'm carving a space inside of you. Can you feel me?"

" _Fuck_."

"Tighten the hand around your throat. I'm inside you. You can't escape from me, can you?"

"No," Will gasps, his pace increasing as he bucks into his own hand. He knows the sort of raw strength in the compact muscle Hannibal carries on him. He has felt Hannibal pick him up and hold him down. 

He can feel it now, ropes around his wrists, a hand on his throat, blood in his mouth. Will wants something to bite, needs to sink his teeth into flesh. His own or Hannibal's, it doesn't matter. All that matters is the ache.

"I'll keep you," Hannibal says. "Right here, waiting for me. Whenever I feel the need to use you."

There is, Will thinks hazily, a hint of wistfulness to Hannibal's voice. But Will's vision is going dark at the edges, there's only so long he can hold back. 

"I want you to," he says, honesty in every inch of him. "Hannibal, hurt me, fill me. Come inside me, I'm screaming for you."

Distantly, he hears the low groan that accompanies Hannibal's orgasm. It's nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in Will's ear, the raspy quality of his voice as he finally lets up on his throat, jerking in the office chair. He spills over his fist in long pulses, cursing through his release.

He has no way to hide this, Will realizes, as he slowly comes back to himself. Hannibal will smell it on him. 

In his ear, Will hears a shaky breath. "Until next time, Hunter."

He clears his throat and tries to blink the haze away from his vision. It's difficult, his eyes can't focus, like they do when he's shocked too quickly from sleep. He's panting into the headset and his hand is warm and sticky, every inch of him is subtly trembling. 

He swallows. "Looking forward to it," he manages to say, before Hannibal sighs, and the call ends. Will immediately shoves his clean hand against the dialpad to put himself on busy, so he doesn't get another call, and pulls his headset down to rest around his neck.

He tips his head back and closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He's still holding onto his cock, he realizes, idly registering as it goes soft after one last desperate pulse, as though it, too, misses the sound of Hannibal's voice.

Maybe it's the emotional release, maybe it's the fact that Hannibal just made him come all over himself on a call that lasted less than ten minutes, but a sudden deep, cold wave of shame washes over him. Or perhaps shame is too self-deprecating a word; it's awful. He feels like Hannibal really did cut into him, but not with a knife or his own nails.

He's never wanted to go home this badly. He feels sick with it, nausea curling low in his stomach beneath the cooling stain of his release. He forces himself to open his eyes and stare at it, gingerly removing his hand from his underwear and grimacing at the thick film still clinging.

He won't be able to wash this off and Hannibal is going to smell it on him again. He can blame the crime scene that doesn't exist, but it'll end with another night spent cold and untouched in their bed, and Hannibal looking at him like _that_ , like Will is a monster for wanting to touch him with a killer's mindset behind his eyes.

He hates this. He hates how _complicated_ this is. He hates the existence of Hunter, and hates that Hannibal ever called into this line, and hates that, still, he knows he can't just come out and _confess_. Hannibal would love that. He would poke and prod and _pry_. 

He presses his lips together and wipes his hand on his jeans. They're a lost cause, there's no reason to try and save them. He corrects his clothes and rubs his clean hand over his face. In the bottom drawer of his desk are things like lotion and handwipes, which were part of his welcome packet because that's the kind of things that get given to phone sex workers, particularly the male ones.

Will's never had to use them before, and his cheeks are red as he wipes his hands clean and dabs futilely at his clothes. When he's done, he finishes up his notes on the call, because he's a Goddamn professional, and pushes himself to shaky feet.

He looks up and sees Beverly. She hasn't been there for long, he knows, because she still has a subtle look of surprise on her face at seeing him so affected. She's a professional too, though, and has been in the business far longer than Will.

She presses her lips together and folds her arms across her chest, leaning against the side of his cubicle entrance. "I need to talk to you," she says.

Will arches a brow. "Right this second?"

Her eyes drop, and she has the decency to look sheepish. "Right. Yeah. Go ahead and clean yourself up and then come meet me in my office?"

Will nods, and she leaves. Will hurries to the bathroom, his walk of shame more like a sprint. Again, there's not much he can do for his clothes, but he douses them liberally in water, shrugging off the flannel button down so he's only in his t-shirt. He scrubs the material with soap, and rubs a wad of paper towels around the front of his jeans and where he wiped his hands clean on his leg.

He knows the soap won't do enough, if Hannibal could still smell him after, but maybe he'll try and weedle the cleaners out of some stronger stuff. Bleach and hand sanitiser. He'll say he visited the morgue - that would explain the chemical smell.

It might work, it might not, but Will can't come home a second time smelling of sex. Hannibal will make some kind of correlation, his mind too brilliant and eyes too sharp not to notice a pattern forming. Will doesn't dare think of the conclusions he'll draw, between Will's lies and behavior.

He closes his eyes and splashes his face with water, and ties the arms of his flannel around his waist. The ends are soaking wet and the arms caught a lot of the water, too, so it's not comfortable, and sweat makes his t-shirt cling beneath his arms and around the collar. It's uncomfortable and stifling and he wishes that this place had a shower.

He runs his wet hands through his hair, willing his heart to calm down and his body to cool, and leaves the bathroom again, heading to Beverly's office.

"What's up?" he asks, as the door closes behind him.

Beverly smiles, and gestures for him to take a seat. Her office is no fancier than one of the cubicles - it has the same drab carpet and ugly beige walls, and a desk and computer, same as the rest of them. One of the things that attracted Will to this particular hotline was the lack of drastic and imposed social status between the workers and the managers. 

He takes a seat on the little office chair in front of her desk, still uncomfortable and miserable but glad to be in the company of someone he considers a friend.

"I wanted to bring up your contract," Beverly says. Will tilts his head to one side, frowning. "When you signed on, you said that you were only interested in working here temporarily, and part-time. But, Will, you're one of our most popular agents. I was wondering if you'd be willing to consider staying on with us, and making this a full-time job."

Will...hadn't expected that. His frown deepens. "Full time?" he echoes. Beverly nods.

"I know you have a day job," she says gently. Will had made it clear in his initial contract, because if Jack _did_ keep him late a few nights, or called him, he would be compelled to go. "If money's the issue, we can talk about that. And you don't have to answer me now, but I'd like for you to consider it. You're really good at this, Will, you're in high demand. I know you don't see it but we have a _lot_ of clients who are only interested in speaking to you."

Will's smile is, admittedly, rather pleased about that. It's nice to be wanted, even as a fantasy.

"So just think about it," Beverly finishes, straightening in her seat. "You've got a month left with us - if I'm going to start the termination paperwork I need to give H.R. two weeks to process everything. So you have that long."

Will nods. 

"And if you need to go home, or take a long lunch to go clean up, that's fine," she adds, gesturing vaguely in his direction. "I know that can't be comfortable."

Will grimaces, and nods again. "Thanks," he says, and gets to his feet. She gives him a bright smile, and he leaves her office to head back to his cubicle.

He does want to go home. He wants to see Hannibal, despite everything. Or maybe even because of it. Hannibal can, uniquely, impossibly, calm him when no one else can. Even when they're fighting, or things are tense, holding teeth and anticipation that he refuses to cut, he would rather be mad, and around Hannibal, than happy on his own.

He imagines ropes around his wrists, and wonders when Hannibal so capably ensnared him. What it would take to cut himself loose, and how much it would hurt. If it would hurt at all. If freedom would be worse.

He needs to go home. He needs to see Hannibal, now. He needs to feel that hand at his throat and weight between his thighs. 

He turns back and catches Beverly's eye. "Do you have any hand sanitizer?" he asks. "The smellier the better."

She arches a brow, and reaches into the top drawer of her desk, pushing aside pencils and pens, paperwork and a single bright red stapler, and hands him a tiny pink bottle. It stinks of strawberries and chemicals and Will rubs it all over his wrists, and hands.

"Thanks," he says, handing it back to her.

"You headed home?" she asked with a knowing look.

"Yeah," he replies. "I might be back."

She grins at him. "Take all the time you need."

Will nods, swallowing harshly. He only lingers long enough to sign out of his computer, lock it, and grab his bag and coat before he's out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Will lingers in his car when he gets home. All he can smell is acrid artificial strawberry and antiseptic, but he knows Hannibal. If the sanitizer doesn't burn his senses, he'll probably look right past it. 

Or maybe he won't. Maybe he'll just ask Will why he smells like children's shampoo and spite. 

Coming home didn't used to be this goddamn complicated. Or stressful. Will should have been unwinding from work, letting the heavy weight drop from his shoulders. He should have been curling up with Hannibal in their bed, naked and wanting. 

Instead, he's cowering in his car, trying to figure out how to sneak into his own home without arousing any suspicion. Will feels nauseatingly like he's having an affair. Cheating on Hannibal with Hannibal, because Will's life has always been bizarre. 

The house still smells like dinner when Will slips quietly into the door. Stew, this time, no doubt made specifically with Will in mind. He's always been a sucker for classic comfort foods, no matter how much Hannibal tends to tweak them to suit his own pretentious purposes. He can't deny that Hannibal's alterations always end well for him.

Will's stomach growls. He tries to move as quietly as possible, slipping free of his shoes and padding on socked feet towards the stairs. 

"Will?"

 _Fuck_.

Hannibal meets him in the hall, lingering in the doorway to the dining room. "I waited for you," he says with a disarming smile. "It's been a while since we were able to properly eat together."

There goes the guilt. Will forces a smile across his face. "Just give me fifteen," he says, not breaking his stride. He makes it to the stairs before Hannibal's nose wrinkles.

"Will, what is that _awful_ perfume?"

"Exactly," Will says, hurrying up the steps. To his relief, Hannibal doesn't follow. He manages to get himself locked into the master bathroom without any further mishaps.

With a sigh, Will leans against the door, head tilted back. For a second, he wants to just be honest. He wants to tell Hannibal exactly what's happening.

But then Hannibal would want to 'handle it.' And even if Will could get over that bit of charity, he'd follow that up with too many questions about why Will didn't just tell him. 

Hot water. Hot water and Hannibal's shampoo make everything better. They always do; Will's muscles tend to get tense and Hannibal's scent is calming. Slowly, he relaxes under the spray, letting his hands linger in his hair to be absolutely certain he's worn away the tell-tale scent. 

He almost doesn't want to get out. Or if he does, he wants to collapse into bed, bury his nose in Hannibal's pillow, and pass out. 

But Hannibal is waiting for him. Hannibal _waited_ , and that sends a pang through Will. Will misses Hannibal so fiercely that he forgets sometimes that Hannibal misses him just as much. Of course Hannibal misses him, he's made it no secret that he would happily keep Will at his side every minute of every day. For whatever reason, Hannibal is completely ass over elbows in love with him, so much that he's willing to put up with the barest scraps of physical affection and time from Will simply for the pleasure of what pieces he is allowed to have.

And when all's said and done, Hannibal waited _weeks_ before even calling a phone sex line. That's fucking astonishing, in Will's opinion. He can't even do something like have an affair like a normal person.

Will sighs. He's tired and miserable and he knows he'll feel better the second he gets his hands on Hannibal and lets himself forget. And even in the master bathroom, he can smell the salty richness of the stew, and his stomach rumbles.

He turns off the shower and steps out, towel dries his hair and runs the towel over his body with broad, cursory swipes. Water drips down his neck and shoulders as he comes back out into the bedroom and pulls on a fresh pair of underwear, jeans, and a t-shirt the color of a cloudless summer sky. He smiles to himself at Hannibal pointing out his peacocking behavior - choosing colors he knows will compliment his skin and eyes.

He uses Hannibal's deodorant for good measure, so that he smells as much like Hannibal as possible. He wipes his nose with his fingers and forearm, absently checking that he doesn't still stink of sweat and come and shame. He doesn't catch anything, and despite the fact that his nose is nowhere near as sensitive as Hannibal's, Will knows what sex smells like, and is pleased to know that he's spotless, in that regard.

He keeps his feet bare and forgoes shoes because he knows Hannibal likes the small height difference between them, and pauses when he sees Hannibal in the kitchen. The table has been set, the dining room waits like an open invitation, in his periphery. Will is at a crossroads - go to the table and sit, and be waited upon, or go to Hannibal and take the affection he's craving.

In the end, the choice is obvious. Will's hands burn and it feels like there are actually rope marks on his skin as he comes up behind Hannibal and plasters himself against Hannibal's back, nose crushed to his shoulder as Hannibal goes still. He rumbles, quietly, as Will nuzzles his shoulder and his wet hair soaks through to Hannibal's skin.

Hannibal sighs, like every muscle in him relaxes at once, and puts a hand over Will's. "Hello, darling," he murmurs, turning his head. Will straightens and loosens his hold so that he can turn, and Will kisses him. Again, and again, growing frantic as Hannibal cups the back of his neck and tightens his grip.

Hannibal pauses, for air, and breathes in. His lashes are low over his very dark eyes as he tests the scent in Will's hair - his - and at Will's neck - his - and beneath Will's arm - his, of course. Will smiles.

"What was that scent, before?" Hannibal asks curiously.

Will has gotten very good at lying. He hates that. "Jack and I went to a morgue and some of the bodies were really ripe," he replies. Hannibal's fingers slide down to the side of Will's neck, under his jaw. He's checking Will's pulse, he realizes abruptly. Searching for a lie. Will swallows, and adds; "I asked for something to cover the smell, I didn't want it to bother you. Turns out I should have probably stuck with _eau de dead guy_."

Hannibal's lips twitch at the corners, his eyes shining with mirth. "I'm no stranger to the scent of the dead, Will," he says quietly. His head tilts, and he considers Will. This close, Will can feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, and combined with the late hour and powerful orgasm, it seems so easy, so tempting, to melt into Hannibal and let himself be carried away.

"Was it the same man?" Hannibal asks, finally, after a long while. Will's brow creases, and then smooths out again. Right. The rapist. The reason Hannibal wouldn't fucking touch him last time.

He shakes his head. "No," he replies. Hannibal hums, and his fingers linger over Will's pulse a moment more, before he pulls back and gives Will a warm, affectionate smile.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good. Go sit; I'll bring out the meal shortly."

Will sighs, knowing he's been dismissed. Normally that kind of shit doesn't bother him - he doesn't like being sent off to wait in the wings, but he understands that Hannibal does these things because acts of service are how he expresses his love. He _likes_ doting on Will, and waiting on him, and being asked to bend over backwards to please him. 

Which is why Will cannot, _will_ not, tell him about his money problems. Because Hannibal will make it go away and think it's just something people in love do and not understand why that would piss Will off. He'd call it a point of pride and he would be absolutely right and Will doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Beverly's offer sits in the back of his skull like a weight. He could make a lot of money, if he took this up full time. He could quit his job with Jack or go to being solely remote and be set for life. He wouldn't be gone all the time. He wouldn't be so _tired_ all the time.

It's tempting. He doesn't even think Hannibal would judge him for considering it. But Hannibal is possessive - not jealous, not quite - and Will doesn't think he'd be as eager to talk about his day when his day consisted of getting strangers to use and abuse him for their own pleasure. It's bad enough to do that with murder.

His head hurts, and he rubs his forehead, feeling misery and tension headaches coming for him like a pack of dogs. He sighs to himself, and closes his eyes, listening to Hannibal tinkering away in the kitchen. He just wants to forget for a moment. Let go and enjoy himself.

He wants to be Will Graham, not Hunter. Just for a night. 

Beverly probably never considered that Will was coming back this shift, but he texts her anyway, saying that he's out for the night and he'll see her tomorrow. She replies with a thumbs up, and he turns his phone on 'Do Not Disturb' and slides it into his pocket as Hannibal emerges with dinner.

The flavors burst on Will's tongue, but he barely notices them. He's too keyed up, twisted tense in his need to touch and be touched. 

Hannibal's nimble fingers cup and caress his wine glass. Will is drawn to them, gaze sharp as he watches the slow shift while Hannibal drinks. 

The bob of Hannibal's throat. The soft tilt of his pleased smile. Will is hungry, ravenous. 

It's been… Will can't count the days. Too long. Too many nights where Will was too exhausted from work to do much more than flop into bed. Hannibal's hands have searched for him and been spurned, night after night,

Tonight, though, Will feels rejuvenated. Energized. Talking to Hannibal requires far more focus than any other client, but by the end of it, Will feels refreshed rather than drained. Hannibal stirs up something inside Will that is clawing to get out. He wants to put himself in Hannibal's hands. He wants the phantom palm he felt around his throat to be real. 

Hannibal prefers to do the dishes. Will has always found it unfair - he already does all of the cooking, he should let Will contribute - but he finds the motions soothing and he knows under his own hands, nothing unfortunate will happen to any of his favorite pans. Will's hands are less intuitive about the needs of cast iron. 

Will hovers, anyway, eyes on the nape of Hannibal's neck, the wisp of baby hairs beginning to grow just a tad too long. Hannibal will have them cleaned up in another day or two; Will doesn't think he's ever made it more than four or five weeks without a trim. 

For now, though, there is a give to his hair. There's always enough to tug, but now Will could really sink his fingers into it. He wants to. His mouth is watering with the urge. To hold tight, to draw Hannibal to his throat and beg for him to bruise it. 

Will takes a step. Another. His hands are shaking with the want. He crowds against Hannibal's side, and when Hannibal tilts his head to look at him, he tips his head up. A mockery of innocence, as if their scant difference in height is suddenly miles. He knows, without any real effort at all, that Hannibal's gaze will be drawn to the flutter of a pulse beneath Will's skin. The hollow just under his jaw where the carotid pumps. A place Hannibal has often set teeth to and tugged.

"Was there something you wanted, Will? I'll be done in a moment."

Will licks his lips, watching the way Hannibal's eyes track the movement. He sees in Hannibal's face, that he knows exactly what Will is pleading for with every little shift of his body. 

"What if what I wanted was for you to have what _you_ wanted?" he whispers. He feels out of practice, somehow. He's been flirting with strangers for weeks, has fielded calls from _Hannibal himself_ , and yet here, face to face, he feels uncertain. 

Will doesn't want to sound like a bad porno. He doesn't want to sound like _Hunter_. He just wants this, just him and Hannibal, existing in this space together, without anything else to bother them.

Hannibal's fingers find Will's jaw, trailing back, tucking a curl behind Will's ear. He gets a grip on Will's hair, gentle, almost sweet. When he tugs, Will goes obediently, tilting his head back so that Hannibal can set his lips to that sweet rhythm, rabbit-fast as Hannibal's teeth graze skin. 

"If that's what you'd like," Hannibal whispers, his voice low, gravelly, "then you'll go upstairs to our bed and wait for me."

Will shivers, a soft sound stuck in the back of his throat. He imagines Hannibal sinking his teeth into it, swallowing it for himself. Hannibal is a man to consume what he loves, and he loves it when Will is loud. 

Hannibal lets him go, a subtle nudge of their shoulders bidding Will do as he's told. Will bites his lower lip and allows himself one last grab for affection, one last graze of his lips to Hannibal's shoulder, before he takes his leave and heads upstairs.

He supposes, with as obvious as he's being, that dressing for bed is unnecessary. He strips down and goes to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, using the bathroom, and wets his hands, splashing water on his face. He stares at himself in the mirror, for a moment, eyes lingering on his bare chest, his throat. Normally there are marks, here; soft bruises and just the very edges of teeth. Hannibal isn't rough unless Will asks him to be, but he's passionate. He leaves kisses and sucks sweat from Will when they fuck, but they haven't done it in so long, Will is clean as fresh snow.

He doesn't like it. If Hannibal wanted him so badly he would show it. 

Those thoughts aren't fair, he knows that. Hannibal _does_ want him, loves him to death, but he doesn't force Will. He never has, except in that insidious, calm way that feels more like drowning than being punched. After all, if Hannibal was truly respectful of Will's resistant nature, they wouldn't be together at all. 

But he's not that kind of monster. Their bed is a sacred space for pure, enthusiastic consent. Will hasn't been giving him that, and Hannibal cannot, _will_ not, force it. 

Will bites his lower lip, thinking of Hannibal on the phone. A faceless creature he can push all of his desires on, that's what Hunter is. Not Will. If Will wants to pull at that thread, he has to do so carefully. He has to be cunning.

He tilts his head as he hears the water turning off downstairs, the soft sound of Hannibal's footsteps clearing the kitchen and heading upstairs. There's no hesitance, why would there be? But there's no eagerness either, no rush. Hannibal is taking his time, as though he doesn't have Will, eager for the first time in what feels like forever, waiting for him.

Will leaves the bathroom, the air cool on his damp skin. He runs his hands through his hair, seeking to make it fluff up, make it irresistible to grab. He doesn't make it to the bed before Hannibal is at the door, and he stops, his eyes dark, lips parting as he gives Will a slow, appreciative once-over.

There's the eagerness. Will feels it along his spine like an electric shock.

He smiles, and sits, watching as Hannibal sheds his shoes and socks, his jacket, hung on the hook at the back of the door. His tie, neatly balled up on top of the dresser. His vest and shirt. He peels the layers of clothing like the world's best Christmas present, not a show per se, but he must know Will is watching him.

He moves differently, when he knows Will is watching him. Puffed up and preening like a bird, shoulders so much broader, chin higher, stomach just a little tense. Will bites the inside of his lower lip as Hannibal gets naked, and he sits forward when Hannibal curls his fingers in the waistband of his underwear.

Hannibal pauses, eyes drawn to the motion. Will slides to his feet. He doesn't want to sound like Hunter, doesn't want Hannibal thinking of _him_ while Will is in his arms, but Hunter's mindset is easier. His namesake wasn't just tongue in cheek.

Will prowls to him, confidence returning when he sees how Hannibal _looks_ at him. Like he always has, of course - affectionate and warm but now, ravenous. Will worms his fingers between Hannibal's, smile widening when they tighten. He presses himself flat to Hannibal's chest and kisses his jaw, his neck, as he pushes Hannibal's underwear down until gravity can take over, and they pool around his feet.

Hannibal is already hard. It surprises Will, when he knows Hannibal had an orgasm not that long ago. It's immensely flattering, and his mouth waters. He hasn't gotten to use his mouth for anything other than talking for far too long.

Hannibal's arms wrap around him, hands spread out wide; a reptile soaking in Will's warmth as Will plants open-mouthed, sweet kisses down his neck. Will sighs, closing his eyes. "I missed you," he whispers.

Hannibal's nails tighten in his skin. "I've been right here," he replies. The petulance is almost ignorable, so Will ignores it, knowing a barb when he hears one. He won't rise to the bait, not now, not when Hannibal is so close to giving Will what he wants.

"I know," he says. "I'm sorry." That, at least, is genuine. Will doesn't _like_ being run ragged, burning the candle at both ends. He doesn't like being so oversexed by clumsy strangers that he has no appetite for the gourmet meal.

But it's easy, at least, to show Hannibal his guilt. Hannibal is a glutton for punishing Will when he can. Will lifts his eyes and their foreheads touch. "I want to give you what you want," he breathes, as he did in the kitchen. His fingers trace the cut of Hannibal's hips, his thick torso, powerful rib cage that expands into Will's hands like a panting wildcat. Back, to the strong and defined sweep of his shoulder blades. Christ, Hannibal is so well-made, so perfectly fits in his hands, in his skull, between his thighs. 

"Anything you want," he presses, kissing the words to Hannibal's parted lips. To the desperate lick of his tongue, which Will yields to, able to taste the remnants of their meal and Hannibal's wine. 

Hannibal kisses him deeply, trembling like a war beast about to charge. Will braces himself for the lunge, and gasps when Hannibal slides a hand into his hair, that lure Will made just for him, tightens his grip, and crushes Will to him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. There's a rumble in Hannibal's chest, and Will answers it, hardly aware of the distance to the bed as Hannibal guides him across it, and lays Will out atop the sheets.

"Anything I want," Hannibal says, teeth to Will's fluttering pulse. His hands slide up, wrap around Will's wrists, pin them to the bed. Another desperate whimper catches itself in Hannibal's jaws, Will's throat flexing as the pressure builds. "I've had a lot of time to think about what I want, darling. About what I would do to you when you finally let me touch you again."

Another barb, and a warning, and so desperate Will moans weakly. It's hard to think with Hannibal's skin on him, his weight pushing Will's knees apart, his teeth in Will's neck. Hannibal is demanding a confession, repentance. 

Will can certainly give him that.

"I've been neglecting you," Will murmurs. Hannibal's teeth are leaving indentations in his skin- he'll be bruised tomorrow, high and visible, impossible to hide. Hannibal typically has more restraint than that, but Will supposes he's earned some possessiveness. "Let me make it up to you?"

The hands on Will's wrists tighten; he feels his bones grind together, and instead of panic he feels a flutter of excitement. The warmth of Hannibal's hands feels like the burn of ropes Will has been imagining for hours. Hunter would have struggled, if it had been real, and Will would have born the marks.

Will is hard against Hannibal's stomach, trapped between them, eager, ready. He sees the phone call in the back of his mind, the fantasy they'd laid out for each other. Hannibal had wanted to hurt Hunter. Hold him down, break him. 

Will wants to be broken just as thoroughly. He wants, for the second time tonight, to be Hannibal's entire world. 

"How will you make it up to me?" Hannibal asks, his lips brushing the bruise he's left on Will's skin. "Will you listen? Do as you're told?"

Here, Hunter and Will differ most distinctly. Hunter needed to be forced, taken. Will is offering himself up eagerly, ready to be consumed. "I'll be good," Will whispers. It's not something he's said in bed very often, and from the way Hannibal reacts, Will wonders why he's held it back. Hannibal surges forward to kiss him, his cock rutting into the crease of Will's thigh. Will moans, twisting his arms in Hannibal's grasp just to feel Hannibal hold tight to him. 

Hannibal shoves Will's hands up high on the pillows, arms stretched out. "Be still," he says, and the commanding tone in his voice freezes Will in place. 

When Hannibal straightens up, pulling his hands away, Will may as well be chained down. He doesn't move. He barely breathes. He blinks up at Hannibal, hungry and hard, yearning. A lock of hair falls into Hannibal's eyes, the morning's gel worn away from hours of work. Will curls his fingers into fists, digging his nails into his palms to resist temptation. 

Hannibal has always looked at Will like he is something amazing, something to be kept close, cherished. Now, that look hooks into Will and tugs, leaving him breathless. 

"Be good," Hannibal says, bending to nip at Will's throat again, then down, down. He sucks a bruise above Will's collar bone, hands sliding up Will's sides. 

In the fantasy, they'd gotten right to the main event. Hannibal's cock driving into Hunter, his hand around Hunter's throat. There was never enough time to draw things out when the customers were paying by the minute.

Now, though, they have all the time in the world. They have _hours_. Will survives on very little sleep to begin with, and he will gladly sacrifice even that much for more time with Hannibal. 

Hannibal catches Will's nipple between his fingertips, rolling the bud gently, then harder, until it becomes a painful pinch. Will arches his back to relieve the pressure, only to find teeth at his other nipple, sharp and threatening. Hannibal has hurt him before, inevitably, when they got too carried away, but this is pain of a new sort, a purposeful torment.

Will closes his eyes, a choked gasp escaping him when Hannibal lets off all at once, the blood racing back to Will's chest in a surge of overwhelming sensation. He bites his lower lip, closing his eyes, ready to surrender to all of it, anything, _everything, Hannibal, I swear…._

The sharp slap to his cheek makes him gasp, eyes flaring open. Hannibal meets his eyes, and Will sees an echo of surprise as well. His fingers curl, hovering just shy of Will's face. It didn't hurt, not really, certainly not as much as Hannibal biting him. And Will likes pain, that's no secret. His cock is certainly interested, stomach so tense it feels like it's cramping as Hannibal's stares at him.

Will swallows, and tilts his cheek into Hannibal's hand, shivering at the brush of knuckles along tender skin. Hannibal's hand flattens on his face, thumb at his cheek, and Will can _see_ the wheels turning in his head.

Finally, Hannibal recovers, and rasps, "Look at me." Will nods, leaning into the touch, tilting his chin up in invitation. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Hannibal's eyes are open for him, raw nerve endings exposed. Will slips into them like a bath of snakes, feels them coiling around him. "I'm sorry, I'll be good. I'll watch."

Hannibal's upper lip twitches; a snarl of desire he can't quite control.

He leans down and Will rears up as best he can, moaning into the kiss, that is rough and holds teeth. Hannibal bites down on his lower lip and slowly, God, so slowly, he slides his hand to settle across Will's throat. Hard enough that it's vaguely threatening.

Will _whines_ , heart beating so hard it feels like it'll burst out of him, as Hannibal puts pressure just at his fingertips, as though he might cut off Will's blood flow and put him under. Will tips his head back and arches into it, knuckles white as he clenches his fists.

Fuck, it's even better when Hannibal is the one doing this to him. 

Hannibal exhales roughly, and kisses Will's red cheek. "Perfect," he breathes, little more than a simple sigh, and Will's entire body tightens up, heating, eager. Hannibal has been thinking about this, thinking about doing this to _him_ , not Hunter. And Will is perfect, he's being good, he's -.

Hannibal straightens, his arm locking, pressure on Will's throat as he tests his entire weight. Will chokes, keeping his eyes locked on Hannibal. There's so much in his dark gaze, things Will isn't supposed to know about, things he wants to chase down and throw into the light.

Hannibal shows his teeth, adjusts his grip _just_ so, and Will chokes again, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. Hannibal's gaze flashes, a tremor running down his spine. Oh, he _likes_ that. Is it the helplessness, Will wonders, or the suffering, or some heady mix of both.

Hannibal's other hand returns to Will's sore chest, twisting roughly, and Will arches, whimpering, squirming, desperately gripping the headboard so he doesn't reach for Hannibal. 

Hannibal's lips quirk, in a cruel smile Will has never seen before. "Trying to disobey so soon?" he murmurs, tilting his head. His fingers flex, one by one, like a countdown along Will's throat. If Will didn't know any better, that smile, that tone of voice, would genuinely terrify him. "Fighting me already?"

"No," Will gasps, choking on the word. He clenches his eyes tightly shut, just to hear Hannibal growl in warning, tightening his grip. It makes more tears well up, which was precisely what Will intended. He feels them falling when he opens his eyes again. "No, I swear, I'm not -."

Hannibal sighs, and leans down to kiss him, so gently it feels like another blow. "I want to believe you, darling," he purrs. "But I don't. Stay still."

Will moans weakly as the hold on his neck suddenly disappears, and Hannibal climbs off the bed. Will lifts his head, already lightheaded, delirious with arousal, and he watches Hannibal retrieve his tie from the dresser, and pull it tight.

Hannibal comes back, and binds Will's wrists up, cinching them tight. He ties the other end to the headboard, and Will tugs, performatively, but then harder when he realizes just how tight Hannibal tied him, how secure the knots are.

He can't get free. He _can't_. His cock twitches and leaks pathetically against his stomach.

"There we go," Hannibal purrs, and climbs back into bed. His hands flatten on Will's heaving chest, his sore nipples, nails tracing each rib. That smile, God, that smile threatens to tear Will apart. "You can't run from me now." His head tilts again. "I wonder, should I bind your feet, too?"

Will knows exactly why he's asking that. He moans raggedly, arching as Hannibal tightens his grip. "Fuck, Hannibal, whatever you want." He tries to swallow, but his mouth has gone so dry. "Whatever you fucking want."

Hannibal's brows rise. "What if...I want you helpless?" he murmurs, in that same voice he used when he tried to get Will to agree to move in with him. In that same voice he uses whenever he wants Will to _confess_. "To only exist for me, for whatever I desire?"

Will twists within his restraints, panting as Hannibal lowers his mouth and sucks another patch of skin between his teeth, at the meaty part of his chest just past his collarbone. Will can't reach for him, of course, so he drags a leg up and wraps it around Hannibal's back, urging him on. He tightens his grip as Hannibal bites, and bites, bruising skin, sucking on the mark until Will feels it in his stomach.

He must feel just as offended by Will's unmarked skin as Will does, because he bites again, just an inch lower, as the first bruise blooms. " _Yes_ ," Will cries, because he can't think of anything clever to say. "Yes, _yes_." Hannibal growls, teasing Will's nipple with a merciless touch. "Use me, Hannibal."

Hook, like, sinker. Hannibal snarls, loudly, and Will trembles in answer.

He _is_ helpless, already. Was helpless before Hannibal ever bound him. There is no way for Will to resist Hannibal, no way to hold back when Hannibal wants him. In this moment, Will has no idea why he's been refusing Hannibal for so long. Why, on his more exhausted nights, he didn't just let Hannibal tie him down and use him as he liked. 

Maybe if he'd known about these little _inclinations_ , it wouldn't have been such an issue.

Hannibal grabs Will by the hips and hauls him further down the bed, until Will's arms are completely straightened out and straining. Will has no leverage to shift back up the bed. He can't go anywhere. He's trapped, here, beneath Hannibal as Hannibal leaves bite marks down his chest, and God, Will wants him so badly. 

Will's nerve endings are on fire. Every shift of Hannibal's body between his thighs, every bite to his chest, every pinch to his nipples. Will struggles to be still when Hannibal pulls away, wanting to surge after him. He'd only dislocate something if he tried. 

When Hannibal slips from the bed to find the lube, Will's chest is heaving. His eyes follow Hannibal, hungry. It's gratifying to know that Hannibal is just as hard as Will, his cock heavy between his thighs, the head slick and reddened. Will licks his lips and parts his legs a little more, as if he can coax Hannibal back faster. 

He's not sure how serious Hannibal was about tying his legs down, but Will can picture it. He can feel rope burn against his skin. When Hannibal returns, though, he only has the lube. He looks at Will from the foot of the bed, eyes intent on the marks he's left and the slick Will's cock has leaked across his belly. He looks for so long and so greedily that it makes Will almost shy; he pulls his legs up as if to hide.

The noise Hannibal makes is both a warning and a threat, and it goes straight to Will's cock, fanning the flames in his belly. Hannibal is back on the bed almost immediately, shoving Will's thighs wide until his knees hit the bed and the stretch becomes painful. There's a gluttonous desire in Hannibal's eyes, one that burns brighter than Will has yet seen. Will swallows and Hannibal bares his teeth, ducking his head to bite at the bob of Will's Adam's apple.

"You promised to be good," Hannibal says, licking over the bite. Will swallows again, and lets out a huff of breath that borders a whimper. "And yet you hide from me."

"No," Will says, though his actions have no other explanation. Hannibal hooks a hand under Will's knee and shoves it up towards his chest, leaving him exposed. The lube is cold when it drips over Will's entrance; he jolts in shock and gives Hannibal a wounded look.

If Hannibal had any patience left in him when he came into the room, it's gone now. He presses forward, rutting his cock against Will's ass, and for a moment Will thinks he's going to shove right in without any warning or any chance for Will to brace himself. Worse, Will thinks he _wants_ him to.

"I should have tied your legs," Hannibal murmurs, pushing forward again, the head of his cock teasing just slightly against Will's hole. "Left you spread open for me."

"You can," Will gasps, "I'll let you."

Hannibal chuckles, dark and low, in Will's ear. "Do you think I need you to _let_ me, sweet boy?"

 _Boy_. There it is again, and Will can feel the way Hannibal's lips shape the word, pressed against his jaw. He gasps and arches up, his cock smearing sticky fluid across Hannibal's stomach. 

Hannibal doesn't need Will's permission to do anything. There is no quick release. There is no give to the tie that binds Will. He's utterly and truly at Hannibal's mercy, and it seems his time with Hunter has only served to stoke Hannibal's violent hungers from embers to flames. 

Why he felt the need to wait until _now_ , Will has no idea. It's not like they have any secrets from each other - except that big one. Hannibal has to know there's no facet that Will could see and reject. That's the whole point.

Hannibal puts his sticky hand on Will's throat again, and it's tender and sore. He'll have trouble working the phones tomorrow. He wonders if Hannibal will call in. If he'll notice. His eyes burn with tears of overstimulation, of emotion, of needing something this Goddamn much and not getting it. Hannibal has denied Will his ability to touch, to do anything but take.

"No," he finally manages, when Hannibal nuzzles at his ear, apparently waiting for Will to say something. "No. You don't need -. Permission. Shouldn't have to ask."

Hannibal purrs for him, like a contented cat, and kisses Will's pulse. It feels like a reward. Will clenches his jaw and can't stop the sound he makes, wounded, ragged, raw, as Hannibal works the head of his cock against Will's hole, positions himself, and pushes in. He rolls over Will like a heatwave, crushing his body to Will's, one hand on his ass, nails digging in sharply, the other gripping Will's throat and shoving him down against the bed as Hannibal sinks into him.

He doesn't hesitate, he lingers, a rough snarl in his chest Will knows so, so well. His knuckles whiten and his fingers flex, elbows curling up because he wants so desperately to touch. Tears are tacky on his cheek as he rubs his face against Hannibal's neck, his shoulder, his chest as Hannibal folds him and fills him.

It's so good, it's so fucking good. Will clings to Hannibal with his knees, his thighs, the arches of his feet. He feels his wrists bruising, joints threatening to pop as he tries to reach for Hannibal, desperate to touch him.

Then, Hannibal releases Will's neck, letting him suck in air, and lifts Will's hips, slides _just_ that extra inch deeper. Will moans weakly, straining against his bonds, against Hannibal's weight. And he catches, just in a fleeting second, the edge of that cruel smile, before Hannibal is moving.

He fucks brutal and hard, hitting every single raw nerve ending Will possesses. He can't keep track of every sensation; his nipples scream in protest, his bitten chest aches at the pressure and abrasion of Hannibal's body against him. His thighs burn from being so thoroughly pinned, his throat, of course, is so sore he can barely make a sound. His wrists - that might be blood, might be sweat, he can't tell.

Hannibal pushes a hand into his hair and tips his head back. "Look at me," he demands. Will does. Hannibal's hair has fallen over his eyes, shadowing them until they look black. The red stain on his cheeks is like raw meat. His mouth, bruised as bad as the marks it laid, and he's shining with sweat, bulging with muscle, _Christ_ , he's a monster. He's a beast and Will loves him so much he can't breathe.

He surges up, fighting the hand in the hair, fighting the protesting strain in his shoulders, and kisses Hannibal fiercely. Hannibal snarls against him, spreads his knees to cradle Will's ass more tightly to his body, rakes his nails into the small of Will's back to make him bow up. The pressure in Will's stomach is unbearable, now. His cock gets wonderful friction on Hannibal's belly, and Hannibal's cock rubs against his prostate with the same unrelenting skill the man himself possesses.

Hannibal prowls over him, crushes him, demands everything of Will right down to his peripheral vision. Will ruts their foreheads together, their cheeks, their gasping mouths. "I'm gonna come," he whispers, though he's sure that's obvious to Hannibal by now. For all Will is good at holding his cards close to his chest, his body is an open fucking book.

Hannibal's eyes flash, lips twitching at the corner. "Should I let you?"

Will almost finishes from the question alone. The implication. He shivers and bites his lower lip hard, enticing Hannibal to growl and finish the job. "Please," he whispers. Hannibal's thrusts stutter, hips jerking in a powerful hitch, like he's been shocked. "Please, let me. I was good, wasn't I?"

Hannibal's jaw clenches. He bows his head and kisses warm and wide over Will's pulse, rabbit-fast now and so heavy his skull aches. "You were _so_ good, darling," Hannibal whispers, kissing the words to the arch of Will's ear. "Show me."

Will can't do anything to stop it. He's as helpless to hold back as he is to get away. Hannibal slows inside him, relishing how Will groans and arches, writhing as much as he's able. His heels dig into Hannibal's back, hips rutting hard so he grinds on Hannibal's cock, chasing that pressure inside him that makes his orgasm last and last, as he spills between their stomachs, covering them both. 

Hannibal smiles, leaning over Will, stealing Will's air as Will gasps, panting, trying to catch his fucking breath. It doesn't feel like his heart will ever slow down. " _Fuck_ , Hannibal," he groans, as Hannibal runs soothing hands up and down his sore, shaking arms, through his hair, across his heaving chest and curling around his hips, his thighs.

"Beautiful," Hannibal breathes. "So perfect, Will."

It is then that Will becomes aware that the lubricant isn't the only thing slick on his thighs. Hannibal came. Maybe when Will begged, maybe when he came too. Will closes his eyes, content to be petted and nuzzled as Hannibal calms himself down, too. It seems to take longer than normal - long enough for Will to become aware of the less-pleasant effects of that fantasy.

He looks up, and makes a soft sound. His wrists are red despite the relatively soft material Hannibal used on him, and the tips of his fingers are very pale. Hannibal follows his gaze and frowns, brow furrowed. 

"You fought too much," he murmurs, reaching up to tug at the tightened knot. His fingernails get him nowhere, and he lets out a soft huff.

"Wanted to touch you," Will whispers back. "I wanted…. I wanted to feel you holding me down."

The look Hannibal gives him is immeasurably fond, especially for Hannibal. Will's lover is a master of subtle expressions; Will has learned to see beaming smiles in the barest quirk of a lip, hysterical laughter in a soft chuckle. This, though, is a smile that shows a hint of teeth, the crease of laugh lines around the corners of his eyes. Hannibal ducks his head and brushes a kiss across Will's sweaty temple. One hand wraps around the knot, around Will's wrist, and gives a firm squeeze that has Will sighing, eyes fluttering closed. 

"Next time," Hannibal rumbles, "I'll be better prepared for your hungers."

" _My_ hungers?" Will asks, biting back a grin of his own.

"I didn't say they weren't shared."

Hannibal leaves him for a moment, long enough for the chill to settle in, for Will to tremble as adrenaline rapidly seeps from his body. When he returns, he crawls over Will, sheltering him with his warmth as he works sharp scissors between the cloth and Will's chafed skin. He cuts the tie from Will's wrists and discards it to the bedside table without a second glance, more concerned with massaging feeling back into Will's frozen fingertips. It hurts. Not much, but enough for Will to whimper, to turn his face into Hannibal's shoulder and seek out the comfort of his scent.

He's never felt quite so… _needy_ before. There is an exhaustion heavy in his limbs, and all he wants is to burrow into Hannibal's skin and never leave. To make a nest of his body, tucked deep within sinew and tissue until Hannibal can never fully be rid of him. It seems only fair, after the permanency Hannibal has made for himself within Will.

It is Hannibal who cleans them up, wiping the mess from Will's thighs while he hisses out his discomfort. Hannibal who turns out the lights, tucks the blanket around their shoulders and holds Will tight against his chest. Will's limbs are useless; even having regained sensation, he feels clumsy, like he's swimming through tar. 

"I've missed you," Hannibal says, pressing the words against Will's skin like a prayer. Will sighs and shifts and tucks down guilt. Soon. When everything is paid off, he can quit.

Or he can stay. Beverly's offer lingers in his mind. He can stay, and arrange things so that he has more time for Hannibal. Somehow.

Either way. Soon. Relief is on the horizon, a breath of air after so long drowning. Will tucks his face under Hannibal's jaw, nuzzling against the steady thrum of blood beneath his skin. He wants to sink his teeth into it, mark Hannibal, remind him that Will is here, that he is _trying_ to be here.

But exhaustion has come to call, and Will slips further and further into sleep, lulled to safety by Hannibal's steady breathing.

Things don't get any easier, after that night. Will had hoped they might, but his body still only offers up so much energy at a time. Once more, Will begins to come home and crash, slipping between silk sheets without even removing his socks. 

When the smooth voice of his lover comes over the line at work once more, Will can't even muster up a mockery of surprise. 

"Hello, Hunter."

"Hello, Hannibal," Will says, with a genuine ache to his voice. "I've missed you."

He can hear the pleasure in Hannibal's voice when he replies. "I haven't frightened you, then?"

"Sometimes fear only makes the experience more vivid," Will murmurs. He leans back in his chair, checks the lock on his door. "The racing of a heartbeat, the flooding of the body with adrenaline. Fear and arousal intertwine so neatly."

A hushed whisper of fabric, as Hannibal adjusts himself wherever he's sitting. Perhaps in the study, perhaps by the fire.

In their bed, possibly, and Will feels another irrational surge of jealousy towards _himself_ , over the idea that Hannibal might invite the intimacy of this moment with a stranger into _their_ bed. 

"I imagine you are not so easily frightened, in a job like yours."

Will hums. Hannibal has no way of knowing the weight of that truth, that Hunter's real job desensitized him long before he ever began working for a sex hotline. "There is a certain loss of innocence inherent in it," he murmurs. 

"You play innocence well enough, considering."

Will allows a laugh, teasing. "I'm well-practiced," he says, "and my innocence was never long for this world."

"A shame."

Will bites his lip. He considers his options, weighing them against what he knows of Hannibal, what further information he's gathered as Hunter. "You would have liked to be there for that corruption, I'm sure. You're a few decades too late."

"Was your innocence taken from you, or freely given?"

"Cast aside," Will says. "No advantages to naiveté."

"I can think of a few."

"Advantages, or appeals?" Will says. He crosses his legs at the knee. Uncrosses them. He can see the vague edges of the path they are about to take, and discomfort and curiosity share his mind in equal measures. "You would have liked me, before. You like power, control. I was a small thing. Delicate. I hit my growth spurt late; I was shorter than everyone else until right before graduation."

Hannibal hums, at that. "Delicate," he echoes, as though tasting the word. "I imagine it would have been very easy to take advantage of you, then. But even puppies have teeth."

Will's breath catches. He can see the bait in the trap, see the cover of leaves shielding his vision from the pit he might fall in and skewer himself on, but he can't help gravitate closer. _Intrigued_. He pushes his thumb to the sore, lingering welts on his wrists, thinks of how much smaller they were back then. Hannibal's long fingers can wrap around them so easily now - when Will was younger, he would have been crushed, bones no less delicate than a baby bird's.

"You're not nervous of a puppy, are you?" he asks. Taunts. Dares; _come on, darlin'_. He can taste Hannibal's curiosity like fine wine, like honey on his tongue. 

"No," Hannibal purrs. "But I wouldn't want to be too rough with you."

Oh. _Oh_ , alright then. If that's how he wants to play it. Will can feel the ridge of every molar beneath his tongue as he sucks in a shaky breath. Presses his lips together, closes his eyes and lets brazen little Hunter worm his way free, silky and sweet. 

He imagines how much _taller_ Hannibal would be, if Will was still a teenager. He'd tower over Will, totally eclipse him. Will shivers despite himself, and hears Hannibal's weight shift again, his breathing getting a little heavy. Will knows Hannibal likes the idea of pinning him down. Of _taking_ , damn the struggling, damn the consequences.

He wets his lips, and whispers; "That never stopped you before."

Hannibal makes a sound, and it makes Will's stomach clench. It's like when Will went to his knees the first time and took Hannibal deep into his mouth without warning. The first time Will grabbed him in the middle of a crowded street and kissed him.

He's been taken by surprise.

"Very true," Hannibal purrs. Will hears the unzipping of his clothes. His tongue wet on his palm. Reaching under, doesn't even take his pants off. _Eager, are we, Doctor Lecter_? Will closes his eyes and turns the volume up on his headset so that he can hear Hannibal's breathing, right into his ear, sending shivers down his spine. "But I wouldn't want to irreparably damage you."

 _Liar_. But Will smiles. "Guess that means I'll have to fight dirty. Make you work for it." 

Hannibal hums at that, but it's more like a purr. It runs down Will's spine like a single grazing fingernail. He arches into it, swallowing loudly.

"Get on your knees," Hannibal demands.

Will laughs - it's short and sharp and smug. "And if I don't?" he taunts. He knows Hannibal likes this, he knows Hannibal has a _thing_ about holding him down. And he can. If Will had met him younger, he would have been intimidated by Hannibal's suits, his carefully gelled hair. He'd grown up in poverty, in ripped jeans and shirts two-sizes too big. Undernourished; his doctor citing that as the reason he'd stayed so small for so long. 

Hannibal would have terrified him as much as he intrigued him. Will feels that urge to please rising up. He would have agreed to anything if it meant Hannibal wouldn't be disappointed in him.

He still will, and that involves a bit of introspection Will doesn't have the emotional energy for right now. He pushes that thought away. 

It's play time, right now. If Hannibal wanted someone sweet and innocent and young, he wouldn't have chosen Will. He wouldn't have so doggedly pursued Will, and put up with his cold shoulder and colder bed. He wouldn't be desperately calling a stranger on the phone for just a taste of what Will can give him.

Size difference, playing with innocence, sure, but part of the allure of being with Hannibal now is that, yes, Will is stronger and bigger but Hannibal can still overpower him. Wolf hunting is much more impressive than making a puppy sit and stay.

"Do you want me to hurt you, darling?" Will can hear fangs in Hannibal's voice, sharpness. He prowls, circling. Will feels eyes on his nape.

This feels more like the push and pull he has learned with Hannibal, more like the way they play at home. Will slips comfortably into his own skin, a coat he has never before worn to work. "I want you to try," he purrs, Hannibal's sharp inhalation a shiver down his spine. 

"I want to put my fingers in your hair," Hannibal whispers, "and see how much pressure it takes to get you to tilt back and arch your spine for me. Brace my palm at the small of your back, and hold you like that."

Will licks his lips. He can feel the strain. He tilts his head back, bares his throat to the empty room. "I'll struggle," he warns. "I fight dirty."

"Tooth and claw," Hannibal surmises. "But you'll find it'd take a great deal more than some scratches to get my hands off you."

It sounds like a promise. Will imagines returning home to Hannibal, keyed up like this, ready to stalk and hunt and topple him to the ground. "Are you going to tie me up again?"

"Eventually. If you prove too difficult."

"I'm always difficult."

Hannibal laughs, soft, gentle. Will fights another wave of jealousy for a sound only he should hear - that only he _is_ hearing. "I like a challenge," Hannibal tells him. "I want to feel you fighting me as I force you down."

"How will you get me to stay?"

"You won't have a choice. You can struggle all you like. I'm stronger than you, and I have a hand on your chin, opening you up."

Will's lips part without conscious thought. He puts his fingers to his cheeks, digs in with them. Imagines it's Hannibal. The angle is all wrong and he can't put the same amount of pressure Hannibal can - will, _is_. How he could grip Will hard enough he feels the indents of his own teeth on the inside of his cheeks.

He swallows. His own needs, his own desires, his own want to _push_ overtake Hunter, settle on him like a heavy weight. When he's with his clients, he's their Yes Man. He does what they want and gives them everything they desire.

Hannibal, though, Hannibal has to earn it.

"I'll bite you if you try to force me," he whispers. He hopes Hannibal can hear the emptiness of his threat.

Hannibal laughs. It's low and rough and, loud in Will's ear, makes him shiver. "No," he purrs. "You won't. I've got my fingers between your teeth, sweet boy." _Boy_. Fuck, it hits Will even harder now. He swallows audibly and sucks in a breath - chokes, when he imagines Hannibal shoving his cock between Will's teeth, ignoring the threat. Imagines himself on his knees, maybe in some dark alley where they couldn't wait to get home. Pawing at his hair and kicking his knees apart on cold concrete. Will feels the ache, the impact. 

" _Hannibal_ ," he whispers, digging his nails into his own jaw, closing his eyes as he tips his head back again. "Fuck. Just -. Touch me, _please_."

Hannibal's breath catches. "I wish I could," he says. Will bites on his own tongue so he doesn't snarl. He wants to touch _Hunter_ , not Will. But he wants Will, too; their last night together proved that. Being pulled in two different directions like putty, by the same set of hands, Will is raw and strung out and desperate. "If you were with me now…."

Will sucks in a breath. How fucking dare he. God, Will wants to rip him apart. "If I was?" he presses. He still has a job to do, nevermind that his head is on fire and his jaw hurts from his own nails, and he's hard and trembling and doesn't know which way is up. 

He can hear Hannibal touching himself, the wet sounds of fingers slipping over saliva-coated skin. "Would you come to me willingly?" Hannibal asks, and Will doesn't know if this is a play for resistance or just some thing he can't keep to himself. "Could I drive you so insensate with need that you'd forget your resistance, that you could simply surrender to me?"

"You always do," Will breathes. It's honest and raw and feels like salt in his lungs. "You make me forget myself."

"You make me more aware of myself than ever," Hannibal replies. Will's stomach rolls with jealousy, even as his free hand travels lower. "Aware of how restrained I've been. Something I want to correct."

Will knows that. He's been pulling at that thread for what feels like forever. He wants Hannibal to unravel, to _snap_ on him. To break over him like a wave of ice and fire, to leave Will bruised and broken and sobbing with relief when it finally comes. Teeth in his neck, hands clawing furrows down to his hip bones, inside him, marking him, filling him to bursting.

"Perhaps I will," Hannibal whispers. His breath is coming faster. "I'll take you somewhere dark, where you can't even see your own hands. I could be right behind you and you wouldn't even notice." 

The hair on the back of Will's neck stands on end. He gasps.

"I'd touch you - fleeting, at first, to get your blood pumping, your heart racing. Until I can smell your fear. Too quickly for you to react, until you're jumping at shadows. Unable to hear me over the sound of your breathing."

"Hunting me," Will rasps.

"Yes, my dear boy." His voice is so low, the sound of his hand on himself faster now. "And when you're terrified and desperate, when you're ready to succumb to darkness, I'd come for you. Grab and twist your hair and throw you to the floor. You couldn't struggle fast enough, you wouldn't be able to get away before I was inside you."

Every muscle in Will's body goes tight. He whimpers, imagining Hannibal pinning him down, a hand on the back of his neck, a cursory swipe of spit. That delicious, burning ache as Hannibal fucks him and uses him. 

"In the kitchen, I think," Hannibal muses, as Will presses his hand to his cock and tries to soothe the ache. "It suits us best, wouldn't you agree?"

The words slice through the arousal, the adrenaline, and make Will open his eyes, frowning at his desktop. He blinks, biting his lower lip. "Hannibal?" he whispers.

Hannibal hums. "The lights will be off when you come home, darling," he purrs. Will's eyes widen, his heart suddenly stopping from the breakneck pace. He feels like he's been pushed off the edge of a cliff. "And I'm not taking 'No' for an answer."

Before Will can think of _anything_ to say to that, the line clicks dead. The sudden silence is deafening.

Will stares at the screen, the pop up where he's meant to write his call notes. The blinking light on his machine signalling another call in the queue. On auto-pilot, he sets his line to busy. 

...What the _fuck_?


	4. Chapter 4

Will doesn't make it through the rest of his shift. He's distracted, distant. His clients won't notice, but Will can barely breathe when he speaks to them, his mind on Hannibal. On the promise, the _threat_. 

One hour and three calls later, Will gives up. His heart is a jackhammer in his chest, his palms are damp with sweat. His mind is nothing but a tangle of confused arousal. He tells Beverly he doesn't feel well and takes the long way home. 

How long has Hannibal known. From the beginning? Had he known for their first call, or had he truly been seeking comfort Will couldn't offer and stumbled upon Will by accident?

Did he know, when he bound Will to the bed a week ago? When he left bruises on Will's skin that Will caressed during his phone calls, imagining Hannibal's hands on him instead of a stranger's?

Even the porch light is out, when Will arrives at home. The windows offer no hints, inky black in the dark of the night. Will fumbles with his keys, mouth dry, breath quickening. 

They should talk, they _need_ to talk, but Will knows Hannibal has no interest in that right now. Hannibal has one thought, one need to sate. A plan he has been building, for God only knows how long. If Will tries to talk to him, it will only give Hannibal the opening he needs to pull Will down to the ground.

And Will wants to provide a challenge.

If they're doing this, _really_ doing this, bringing months of fantasies to life, Will wants Hannibal to earn it. He wants Hannibal to break him, but he wants the breaking to feel like a victory.

Will toes his shoes off in the entryway. He can do nothing about the thud of the door, the click of the lock, but he can muffle his footsteps. 

Hannibal could be anywhere in the house. He could be just outside the entryway, waiting. He could be up in their bedroom, letting the tension build. 

On a whim, Will flicks up the lightswitch by the doorway. Nothing. Hannibal had gone the extra step and turned off the breakers. No doubt the refrigerator in the pantry is the only thing getting any power right now. 

The house is silent and dark as the grave. Will knows better than to think it means Hannibal can't see him. He presses his palm to the wall, tracing the path by memory, sliding his socked feet along the floor to avoid even the minute sound of his steps. He considers his options. 

The bedroom is unlikely. Too far, too much waiting. Nor would he want to leap upon Will in the first few seconds. Hannibal would want to give Will time to feel the faint stirrings of fear, paranoia. 

The kitchen, then. Hannibal had said it suited them. Will pauses in the doorway, unable to make out a single feature. The curtains have all been drawn, there is no moonlight to guide the way. 

But Hannibal doesn't need to see to find him. Will pauses, listens, breath held behind his teeth. Hannibal was right, or maybe Will is psyching himself out - he can't hear anything aside from his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

There's no shift of air, no warmth, nothing but the assurance that he is being watched. He is most certainly being watched.

Deliberately, Will turns his back on the room and begins to walk away. Taunting Hannibal, making it clear that Will isn't going to simply walk into his game, willing and easy. 

Three steps down the hall. The study is coming up. If Will is feeling particularly contrary, he can probably light a fire.

An arm wraps around Will's throat, solid as iron, hauling him back against a broad chest. Hannibal presses his lips to Will's hair and tightens his grip, until Will chokes and digs his nails into Hannibal's skin. He can feel dampness as he breaks through, as Hannibal bleeds, but Hannibal merely steps back, dragging Will with him towards the kitchen.

"Found you, sweet boy."

In the kitchen, Hannibal shoves Will forward. He stumbles, catching himself on the island. A hand in his hair keeps him braced over it. Will lashes out, kicking hard at Hannibal's calf. The angle is off and it won't break anything, and without shoes Will's foot can't do any additional damage, but he kicks anyway.

Hannibal laughs, lowly, pressed up close so Will has no chance at leverage. He wraps a hand around Will's wrist and wrenches his arm behind his back, hard enough that Will's shoulder protests and pops warningly. Will hisses, baring his teeth against the cool counter.

"Hannibal," he snaps, too dizzy on adrenaline and anticipation and still reeling from their phone call. Hannibal _knows_. He would never be doing this if he didn't know. He knows Will wants to be pinned and fucked and bruised, but Will shouldn't act like he understands and -.

He's dizzy and his throat hurts from the sudden and fierce grip, from being thrown. Hunter and Will mix together in his head and he can't separate them, and maybe he doesn't need to. He doesn't want to.

Isn't that the point?

Hannibal's hand tightens in his hair, slides down to the back of his neck, and grips him so tightly it's hard to breathe. Will growls and kicks out again, shoving himself off the island. He's not weak, either, and Hannibal isn't just going to take advantage of him. He claws his nails into the back of Hannibal's hand, feels skin turning tender under his nails, and jerks back with his elbow, trying to wind Hannibal.

It's off-center, but it does the job. Hannibal's grip loosens and WIll turns around, lunges, ends up with a hand in his hair and wrenching his head back for his trouble. Hannibal is strong, and deadly in close quarters. He puts his hand on the small of Will's back, just like he said he would on the phone, and sweeps his leg, heel behind Will's, taken down at the Achilles. Will falls back with a gasp, and Hannibal pins him down with a threatening hand on his neck.

"Hannibal," he growls again. He can't see Hannibal in the darkness, but he's sure the bastard is smiling.

Hannibal leans down, Will can only tell because of the change of pressure and angle of his hand. It's so much better when Hannibal does it than when Will tries to mimic the touch himself. Fingertips dig into his cheeks, saddle of his thumb under Will's chin. Hannibal's breath ghosts over Will's ear and he takes an exaggerated inhale.

He laughs, low and smug. "You're either getting better at covering your scent, or I left you unsatisfied, darling."

Will grits his teeth. So, he's known for a while. "Get off me," he demands.

"I don't think so," Hannibal purrs. His teeth sink into the arch of Will's ear, making him wince and whine. His hands land on Hannibal's flanks, and for the life of him he doesn't know if he wants to push Hannibal away or pull him closer. It seems impossible to think about closing his legs or saying 'No' when Hannibal touches him. "If you wanted to make it through tonight unscathed, you shouldn't have come home. You knew what was waiting for you."

Will did. He does. He closes his eyes - not that there's much of a difference - and tips his head back, sighing when Hannibal eagerly takes the bait and his soft lips touch Will's pulse. Fissures of spark-like desire run down Will's spine like pins and needles. He shivers, wanting his head to go quiet.

Hannibal can do that. He always does that. 

Hannibal's teeth, sharp and dangerous, close around Will's carotid artery. If he bites down, if Will struggles just a hair too hard, everything will be over in seconds. Will swallows, his throat tight, bruising already. 

"Good boy," Hannibal teases, pulling back to tug at Will's belt with his free hand. The other constricts, just enough to catch Will's breath in his throat, to remind him who, here, holds all the power. 

It grates at Will. He wants this, wants Hannibal to take, to ravage, to destroy. But more than that, he wants Hannibal to have _earned_ it. He wants Hannibal to force him, rather than have Will docile and sweet beneath him. 

Hannibal frees Will's belt from his jeans, and Will allows it. He allows the hand that untucks his shirt, undoes the bottom button, the next. When Hannibal presses a smile to Will's jaw, when he seems to fully believe he has Will's cooperation, his submission….

Will doesn't have a lot of leverage, but he has enough. He rocks his head forward, smacking their foreheads together. Hannibal's hiss of pain is drowned out by Will's own, but it is enough, just barely. When Will arches his back and shoves at him, Hannibal goes, toppled to the side by surprise alone. Will is not foolish enough to think it's his strength that did it. Will rolls, scrambling onto his knees, reaching for the island to pull himself up.

He doesn't make contact. Hannibal growls and lunges for him again, his hand on Will's forehead just saving him from cracking his skull against the island. That brief show of tenderness, of care, winds Will more than getting shoved onto his stomach, as Hannibal pushes his shirt up and wraps Will's belt around the front of his neck, pulling tight.

Will gasps, distracted by the sudden pressure, enough that Hannibal straddles his thighs, too high up for Will to kick him off, and yanks his jeans and underwear down. Will gets two fingers with a cursory amount of spit, a brief moment of fumbling he barely hears over the rushing of blood in his ears, and then sudden, blunt pressure of Hannibal's cock. Hannibal is normally so polite, so careful, even when he gets rough afterwards. The burn is powerful and Will goes still, more out of self preservation than anything else.

His breath fogs against the floor and he tries to catch his breath as Hannibal pins him down, pulling at his belt with one hand, the other in Will's hair, crushing him to the floor as Hannibal penetrates him. Hannibal didn't tie the belt, it's loose at the back of Will's neck, a single patch of open skin that meets Hannibal's teeth. He bites, and Will whimpers, seizing up, Hannibal huge and hard inside of him as he thrusts into Will.

It's brutal and Will feels it in his lungs, in his throat, even though Hannibal is going relatively slow. It stings, and Will flinches when Hannibal's teeth sink into the muscle at the nape of his neck, his hand twisting so the belt pulls tight.

"Hannibal," he manages. "Hurts."

But he loves how it hurts. He loves how strong Hannibal is, how capable, how in the darkness there's just breath and heat and pain. How Hannibal hestates, just a moment, just a glimpse of humanity behind the beast. The same loving man that would take Will's 'No' for an answer, who would ache and pine for him and feed him at his table even when Will is frigid and snarling at him. 

Then, it's gone. Hannibal's hand twists in his hair, hauling Will's head up, and he growls into Will's ear as he bottoms out, thighs crushing Will's hips and rutting slowly, like they have all the time in the world.

"Do you know what hurts, Will?" Hannibal hisses. Somehow, the sound of his own name, when all he's had is pet names and 'Hunter' for so long, makes Will flinch. "That you felt the need to hide from me. That you made me think -."

He stops, shuddering behind Will. And that knot of guilt is alive and well, flexing in Will's chest even as his breathing gets uneven. Hannibal rocks back and fucks into him again, rough, Will's exposed cock rubbing against the unforgiving floor. It hurts, every part of him - his head and his neck and the hand in his hair, the burn in his ass. Worst of all, though, the pain he hears in Hannibal's voice.

When his eyes start to burn, they are not tears of physical pain. He can take that. He wraps his hand around the one in the belt, begging for some reprieve. Hannibal's grip slackens, just enough for Will to fill his tortured lungs.

"You hid from me for so long," Hannibal whispers. He can't stop moving, now, forcing Will's sore muscles apart for him. He twists the belt around until it cuts into Will's throat, he won't be able to speak properly for a while after this. Will trembles beneath him. "Denied me. Turned away from me. And then, in a moment of weakness, there you were - a stranger, so eager, so much like the man I love."

He bites again, punishing, on Will's shoulder.

"Did you delight in my suffering? Toying with me, giving me just a taste of what I wanted?"

Will shakes his head, drawing in an unsteady breath. "No," he whispers. That, at least, he knows is true. "I hated both of us."

Hannibal makes a soft noise, and Will doesn't know what emotion spurs it. Hannibal releases Will's hair and lets go of the belt, replacing it with his own hand, and it's so much more intimate this way, Hannibal on top of him and pinning him down. Will has nowhere to run. His nails bend back against the floor as Hannibal fucks into him again.

"Well," he rasps, "if I cannot have your love, and your honesty, I will take your hate."

The world has narrowed down, to them, to two burning points of pain. Will sucks in an agonizing breath, constricted by the fingers that fold around his throat, that pin him to the floor. Nowhere to go. No escape. He doesn't want one, but it hurts, it hurts, and even as he tries to offer Hannibal this penance, his body won't allow for it. He scrapes his nails against the floor, digs his toes in and shoves to try and get even a hint of relief. 

Hannibal holds him still, drags Will back when he squirms. He fills Will in rough, quick motions that somehow ache worse when he pulls back. Will will take the burn if he can keep Hannibal inside him, somehow, intertwined. Separation, even for the second it takes Hannibal to rock forward once more, is agonizing. 

Will's chest aches as much as the rest of his body, tangled and twisted, guilt and longing. He wants to undo it all. Or maybe he doesn't. Hannibal's betrayal, his anger, they stab at Will like knives, but at least he no longer holds back. He offers all of himself to Will.

The least Will can do is offer it in return.

Shaking, Will reaches back, wrapping a hand around one of Hannibal's wrists. When Hannibal tries to shrug him off, Will clings tighter.

"Hannibal," he whispers, each word a new burst of suffering, "I don't have any more hate to give you."

Hannibal stills, and for a moment, Will is terrified he's misinterpreted. That he thinks Will is pulling away, that he cannot have even that piece of him. Will's grip spasms, he jerks his head, trying to look back, eyes unseeing.

Then, Hannibal falls. He presses against Will's back, his body so large and consuming against Will's own. He rocks forward, a slow, steady drag rather than the rough claiming of before. He presses his lips to a bruise on Will's throat. 

"All of you," Will says. "Give me all of you."

"And in return?" Hannibal's voice is quiet, softer than Will has ever heard it. Will shivers.

"All of me."

Hannibal draws in a long, slow breath. His kiss finds Will's cheek this time, soft, almost kind.

Then he straightens, hauling Will back up with a tight hand around his neck, and the monster from before returns to fuck Will screaming. He doesn't hold back - he promised this, he wants it. He braces himself against the floor and arches as best he can, no longer just passively taking, but eagerly rocking back for more. Hannibal is not gentle, but gentleness isn't what both of them need.

Will whimpers as Hannibal bites his neck again, sinks his teeth and locks them around Will's fluttering pulse as Will chokes and tilts his head, offering more. Despite the pain, Hannibal knows just how to fuck him, always has. Twisting within him is heat and relief, to be seen and known and accepted.

He wraps a hand around his cock, gasping, breathing raggedly as he hardens in his own hand. Hannibal's inhale is loud, nose in Will's hair, the hand not on his throat flattening over Will's on the floor. Will spreads his fingers so they can lace, accepting Hannibal into all of his crevices, letting the rough edges sand Will's down until they interlock together like puzzle pieces.

"Harder," he snarls, and Hannibal obeys, driving into Will with every ounce of strength he possesses. Will tightens his fingers around his cock, sore and chafed, but in the darkness, in his monster's arms, Will doesn't want to be anywhere else.

"Hannibal, _please_ ," he begs, and doesn't know what he's begging for. Hopes Hannibal can read him; the flex of his shoulders and the curve of his neck, the rush of his pulse, and scents of them weaving together like shared spilled blood. Hannibal tightens his thighs around Will's, pushes his chest against Will's back to make him arch down a little more severely, and _there_. Oh God, " _Fuck_." 

Hannibal growls, the sound victorious. He fucks into Will with brutal, merciless motions, squeezes his fingers until Will is sure their knuckles are white in the darkness. His hand is flat on Will's throat, squeezing when Will clamps down around him, but no longer seeking to punish him.

Will chokes on another inhale, cock twitching and leaking into his hand. "I wish I could see you," he confesses. That's one of the things that hit the most on the phones. Not being able to see Hannibal, to watch his reactions, to see his lips twitch or his eyes grow dark. "Don't hide from me again."

"Never," Hannibal vows, "if you promise the same."

"I do," Will says, without hesitation. It feels like they are before an altar - fitting, in the kitchen, Hannibal wasn't wrong about that - and Will curls up beneath Hannibal, drags his knees forward and lays himself low, bowing down.

Hannibal's rhythm stutters, his breath catches. "Will," he whispers.

"Yes, _please_ , yes," Will begs. The sound of his own name, wrung from Hannibal's chest, lights him on fire from the inside. Hannibal grunts, rutting deep into him. His hand releases Will's throat and claws into his bared hip, tight enough Will is sure it will leave marks, if not split him open completely. Will ruts back, desperate - he can't remember needing something this badly in his life. 

Hannibal pulls out, abruptly, and Will cries out at the sudden emptiness. But Hannibal merely rolls him onto his back, shoves Will's thighs apart, covers him. Will can smell and feel the wetness on Hannibal's cock and knows it's not spit. The scent of iron is sharp in his lungs as Hannibal cups his face and kisses him, deeply, desperately. They rut together, and Hannibal snarls again and forces himself back inside Will, going still as he forces just the tip of his cock into Will's sore body and starts to come.

It leaks out, dripping thickly, and Will knows that's as thorough a claim as if Hannibal had planted himself deep. He can't stop kissing Hannibal, more gasping brushes of lips than real kisses, his hands in Hannibal's hair as Hannibal wraps his arms beneath Will's shoulders and holds him close.

Will wraps his legs around Hannibal's waist, the angle awkward considering he's still clothed, lifts his hips so Hannibal can sink deeper inside of him. "Please," he whispers, as Hannibal kisses his lips, and his jaw, and his bruised and sore neck, which throbs tenderly around the marks from the belt and Hannibal's hands. 

He feels Hannibal smile, feels his teeth, as Hannibal worms a hand between them and takes over stroking Will's cock. It's slow, torturous on his sensitive skin, and Will clenches his eyes tightly shut, clawing at Hannibal's shoulders and face buried in his neck as he shudders, trapped, jaw clenching as Hannibal brings him right to the edge and flings him over it.

He swallows Will's moan, devours his air, greedy, so greedy - Will loves it when Hannibal does that, takes everything from him, leaves him hollow and trembling and sore.

The world comes back to Will in stages. First, feeling returning to the rest of his body. His knees ache just as much as the rest of them, and the cool night has Will shivering on the tile floor.

The sensations slowly transition from adrenaline-laced pleasure to true, unpleasant pain. Will whimpers when Hannibal pulls away from him, reaching up to cup his own throat. 

Tomorrow, he won't be able to speak. Will swallows, feels the ache that causes, and smiles. 

Never has he been so truly, thoroughly marked. 

Hannibal's hand brushes Will's sweat-soaked hair from his face. "Wait here," he says, and pulls his warmth free of Will's embrace. Will lies there for a moment, trembling, and then slowly, so slowly, begins to push himself up. 

It's an agonizing process. Pain shoots down Will's spine, through his hips, his lower back, his insides. Will ends up leaning against the kitchen island, eyes closed, unwilling to pull himself up any further. He's still like that when Hannibal returns, still trying to catch his breath when light shines red behind his eyelids.

"I can't believe you turned the breakers off," he rasps, slowly peeking through heavy lids. The light is too bright for so long in shadow, though Hannibal moves as though he doesn't notice.

"You might have cheated otherwise," Hannibal says, crouching before him. He tilts Will's chin up gently, inspecting what is no doubt a full palette of color painted across his throat. 

"I don't regret it," Will tells him.

"I'm not sure regret would stop me," Hannibal says, and perhaps it's meant to be contrite, but all Will hears in it is _next time, more._ He wants it, even now, even as his body screams at him. 

"Help me up," Will demands. Instead, Hannibal stoops lower, one arm at Will's back and the other at his knees, and lifts. Will gives an undignified sound that turns into a groan of pain, throwing his arms around Hannibal's neck to hold tight. "You're going to throw out your back."

"I've carried heavier weights before," Hannibal says, carrying Will towards the stairs. 

"If we fall I'll kill you," Will grumbles. He can't deny the care is nice, though. Hannibal's scent envelops him, his body warm against Will's chilled one. It's comforting.

Besides, he's not sure how long it would have taken him to make the walk on his own. 

He's brought to the bedroom, and laid down like the most precious thing on their bed. Hannibal strips him and Will winces at each tug on his aching thighs, his sore shoulders. He rolls his head to one side, watching Hannibal in silence, as Hannibal strips down to his underwear too - Will naked, of course, because Hannibal is catty like that - and slides into bed beside him.

"We need a shower," Will rasps. Already it's getting difficult to speak.

"Later," Hannibal promises, his hand gentle on Will's neck, his eyes dark. Will forces himself to roll to his side and Hannibal slides against him like water, his touch for a moment so desperate, disbelieving.

Will sighs. "How much do I have to explain?" he asks.

Hannibal hums. "I can guess most of it," he says, murmurs to Will's hair. "Debt?"

"My dad's."

He hums again. "And you don't want me to fix it."

Will tenses, and remains tense when Hannibal runs a hand down his spine.

"We can discuss it later," he promises.

"It's going to be a short fucking discussion."

Hannibal's hand settles on his hip. Will knows he's smiling, the bulge of his cheek settles on Will's temple as Hannibal embraces him. He is quiet, for a while, and then; "Do you enjoy the work?"

"Yes." It's said simply. Will pauses, and adds; "More than Jack."

Hannibal is silent, his fingers lightly tapping a countdown on Will's hip. Will doesn't think Hannibal would shame him for sex work, not on any kind of practical level. But Hannibal is possessive, about sex just as much as murder.

"I have an offer to make it permanent," Will adds, when Hannibal says nothing. "I'm good at it. It's good money. It doesn't...fuck me up as bad."

Hannibal makes another sound, and kisses Will's forehead. "Darling," he murmurs, "if I can share your insight with other killers, it would be hypocritical to draw the line at sex." Will rolls his eyes.

"But you still might," he mutters.

"I would never forbid you from doing something that made you happy," Hannibal says, and Will believes that much, at least. Hannibal cups his face and draws back so their eyes can meet. "As long as you come home to me, every night."

Will swallows. It hurts to do it. He runs his hands up Hannibal's chest and feels for his heartbeat, finds it steady, solid as the rest of him. _Come home to me_ , that's all Hannibal has ever asked. Will can do that.

"Every night," he whispers. "I promise."

Hannibal smiles widely, and kisses him. Will's jaw hurts from the harsh grip before, but he leans into it eagerly, sliding a hand into Hannibal's hair as Hannibal embraces him, as lovingly and ardently as he ever has.

When the kiss ends, they're both breathless, and while Will is sore and torn up and aches everywhere, he doesn't want to sleep. He doesn't want Hannibal to stop touching him. Hannibal kisses him again, nuzzles his bruised throat, and rises from the bed.

"Come," he says, and scoops Will up as Will groans and clings to him. "I'll run us a bath."

A month later, Will can honestly say he's never been happier. It's so much easier, now that he can negotiate his schedule around call volume, now that he doesn't have to worry about hiding from the man he loves. Now that he doesn't have to worry about the shame, the guilt, the fear.

Though, he will admit, he kind of misses hearing Hannibal's voice when he's on shift. Those ones always passed so quickly, riled him up like no one else. Every other client is so lackluster, so repetitive. He supposes that's a good thing, but even so, every time a new phone call comes in, he feels his heart skip a beat, wondering if it's Hannibal.

It happens on a day like any other. Hannibal had been home when Will left for work, and kissed him and wished him luck, and promised that dinner would be ready when he came home. Now that Will can be open about his hours, Hannibal has transitioned easily. The man doesn't sleep, and can feed and fuck Will whenever he desires.

The phone rings, and Will answers it without looking. "Evenin', sweetheart. I'm Hunter, what can I do for you tonight?"

There's a moment of silence, and then, sweet and soft and amused; "Hello, Will."

Will's breath catches, and he looks at the screen. Sees Hannibal's labels for his profile, Will's own notes. He smiles back even though Hannibal can't see him. "Hi," he says, voice softening unconsciously. "I missed you."

"And I miss you. Terribly. I'm hoping I'm your last call of the night."

"You can be," Will breathes.

"Excellent." Hannibal's voice is a purr, promising and low, and every muscle in Will's body tightens with anticipation. "Let's begin."


End file.
